Bleeding Autumn
by Astarte's Rapture
Summary: He's far from the life he knew and so close to the life he has been living. The Socs tell their side of the story . . . of the time when Autumn bled. Book based. R&R please!
1. Driving Hues

They all became one.

One – mass – a mass of colors. Yellows - oranges - rouge – they all morphed without any trumpeting announcement into a heaving body of coffee liquid. Just as paint when one smeared the pastels across the wooden surface of the pallet.

You just have to lean your head upon the window – sense the bitter glass as it kisses your cheekbone – with your breath creating ice crystals only visible to you. It is when you permitted the frost to flow with the lung's rhythmic motions, the eyes to shrink and expand as you refused to blink, and their focus to rotate as a microscope, that autumn's dawning shades rippled together like watercolors – and for a split instant, they become one mass of compatible colors – without diffusion.

The motor growled steadily. Its throaty rumbling vibrated my forehead, softly echoing thuds within the depths of my ears. For many, I presume, the despair of possible bruising would have resulted in an annoyed erected posture with hands folded daintily within the lap. But, the articulations radiated consolation, a mood of pleasant familiarity always welcomed within my nerves. It was a gentle lullaby for drooping eyes attempting to construe a world that they wistfully hoped to open unto. It was not a fantasy world one would see within a novel or masterpiece by Monet, for it was a world that the raven wheels rolling beneath my body were estranging me from; further and further the chasm increasing. Perhaps that was the reason for the blur. Perhaps the wheels took pride in their cargo, and increased their speed with royal enthusiasm to escape its former residence.

The clever grin betrayed the former facade of slumber.

Voices penetrated the wall I had labored so hard to construe. The bricks groaned as the vibrato chords strained their cemented fortifications. I saw them sway – back and forth. Like a pendulum within that ancient grandfather clock – my grandfather gave that to them. It's in a box now – with everything else. A life, an existence, taped over and over again within cardboard, sealed so tightly that it gasped for oxygen, the lungs pounding in panic, pleading for liberty against the constraints. They wanted to burst and scream, to wail and seethe, to burn and freeze all at once. But they wouldn't.

They will pretend to sleep in peace. In content. Just as the voices desired. Their tones increased. A female giggled. A man thickly guffawed. The light seeped beneath lids as I opened them to the chilled atmosphere. Hard reality sneered back into my face.

Expensive leather, from Florence they had boasted, bore the fair headed woman who smiled at the man holding the wheel with a hairy hand. The odor of luxury was almost suffocating, but I swallowed hard, allowing the saliva to steady my stomach's churning. The vehicle paused at the light, and the woman turned her pinched face to me.

"The colors are magnificent, are they not? And so early in the year." She grinned. "It will be an early winter – perhaps we should have packed the heavier coats."

The man clicked his tongue and drummed his thumbs upon the wheel. With an accent credited to his Mediterranean decent, one I often attempted to mimic and so miserably failed, he responded sophisticatedly, "It is not yet cold enough to bring out those coats, dear. Don't worry Margaret, we are nearly there. It will not be long."

"But the colors are remarkable are they not?"

"Yes, they are."

He never bothered to glance out of his window, but, as everything, he fixed his pupils upon the goal ahead, the targeted destination. There was never any time to ponder what rested upon the sidelines lest one losses sight of the objective. Everything else is secondary.

"What do you think," she turned to me, her voice joyously giddy. I heaved my shoulders and nodded curtly. "Answer your mother, Michele." His stern voice strained the vowels of my name, As and Es becoming one and the same, drawing as a magnet my eyes to meet his in the rear-view mirror. The car lurched forward without warning.

"They are quite remarkable, mother." My eyes never left his, and it was only after the last word fluttered from betwixt my lips that he satisfactorily lifted his glower and returned to surveying the road ahead of him. There was naught but lines, yellow and white, that never changed or altered their distance. They zoomed past quicker than any could count, just as the trees. I tried to number them, all of them. Chestnuts. Maples. Cedars. Willows. But the man increased the speed, and my eyes darted to the meter. The crimson needle bobbed up and down, then, steadily strained upward, passing numbers as surely as the vehicle passed the trees and lines. I glanced out the window once again, and while it was not massive blob of russet, it still blended to beige. Everything spun as it passed with neither a wave nor welcome, for before an utterance could be heard, we had left it behind – just as we had everything else that could not be bought from foreign traders reaping the monetary value of ancient artists. Peaking behind, the tawny van still followed. The piggish man still gripped the wheel as he played follow the leader – disturbingly closely – with our vehicle. I leaned my head to the refreshing glass, so chilled, and I closed my eyes.

There was always that space – that expanse of time – not quite the dead of sleep – not quite awareness to reality. It is a place the voices around the ears fade as an echo through a long tunnel, and colors twirl behind the eyelids as zodiac signs. The green was a spindle against the cream, and the magenta formed boxes with the lavender. They could be controlled sometimes – the colors and shapes. If my brows nettled together hard enough, and I strained my eyes to create what I wanted, it would. That, after all, is the beauty of being powerful. He had told me that once. _That is the beauty of power, my boy, it gives you control of all that you desire. You will learn to lust for it one day, and when you have dabbed your toe into its essence, you will become its addict. _He often spoke as a philosopher, or even a melodramatic English professor. But, his words in the forms of promises were always a threat at becoming reality. Maybe, this was the beginning of the addiction, even if it was absent of nicotine. '_But,_' I suppressed the laugh, '_if I was so powerful, I would not be in this vehicle. I would have remained there – the place so distant and out of reach. That is the tragedy of it all, of the illusion. Power is naught but a limited vessel sought after by so many foolish men_.'

Another light.

Father was one of those men, but he had obtained such a power. Great power. So grand that it became like a dragon standing guard over its keep. The restless beast never dared to leave the nest, lest a burglar stole a single coin from its empire. Its fiery breath constantly polished each coin, and he took into count each twilight eve the worth of his mound. Counting. Always Counting. A thousand coins! Ten thousand coins! The old house always chimed, repeating his latest count. A hundred thousand coins! There was always that need, that silent and excruciating loud moan for more. Always more. Bigger. Better. More power. It was so unpredictable, like the path of a hurricane or tornado. They swept wherever they desired across the land, yet when they returned to be but particles and clouds, all that remained in their stead was destruction; a long path of tarnished wood and broken picture frames.

That was the threat of power.

"Open your eyes, dear. We are in Tulsa. It won't be long now." I suppressed a groan as she patted my legs impatiently. I opened them in time to view the sign with boxed letters "Welcome to Tulsa." It was the only thing that was given the opportunity to speak, for we passed it as quickly as my eyes skimmed its message.

"This is so exciting," she squealed. "The house is much larger than that old coop of ours. Much larger, dear. And the neighborhood is lovely, absolutely lovely. Fine kept yards full of roses and carnations, my, it could take your breath away. It is paradise on earth."

She turned to me once again with her white smile and hazel eyes. "You are going to love the kids, and they all will go to your school. You will be the buzz of the town in no time at all. Just like you were back at home."

Her optimism was as shallow as she, but she was my mother, and she meant well most of the time. Sometimes the environment one was surrounded by consumed the personality, and it became as fickle as those at the various balls, with peacock feathers and mink coats, with sapphire tiaras and rustic gold watches safely stored in a pouch pocket. But she did mean well, and it was evident in her credulous grin. I made to respond to her prediction, but a mighty pothole in the road nearly caused my teeth to eat my tongue; they scraped its base and a numbing sting permeated the muscle.

"My word," Father gasped.

The road was uneven, full of random stones and broken asphalt, thrusting themselves in all directions. I glanced about, only to be met with, to put it into polite terms, poverty. Rotted poverty. Grey. Speckled with garbage cans and blackbirds with orange breasts.

There were rows of houses, just like any normal neighborhood, but their state was deplorable. Roofs seemed to jig unevenly as shingles drooped off of the edges, while many had bare spots with no covering at all. Naked. Paint chips dotted the grass – or was it grass? Maybe old straw wetted down from a muddy pump? We passed one home where mechanical parts, possibly belonging to the old Ford slumping against the road, had stained the rotting grass with auburn rust and splotches of black oil drops. It became a calico pattern in the yard of almost every house. Chain link fences leaned east or west, never north. In the slight breeze, they wobbled uncertainly, pondering if they should release their footing and retreat to the ground. I held my breath.

Left . . . Right . . . Left . . . Right . . . Left . . . But they held strong. Weather beaten, rusty, and chipped, yet sturdy all the same.

Not all homes were kept in this fashion. To say so would have denied the eye's ability of sight. Some had groomed yards, with daffodils and blood roses. One even sported a dainty white fence around the yard. I doubt the two pairs of eyes ahead of me took note of these exceptions; more than likely their noses were curled too high up in disgust that even if they were to peer down the length of their nostrils, they would only see the tips of their pinky lips. I, on the other hand, found it all to be quite ironic. My, how a lurid fantasy can be distorted within a single moment!

My mother's fingertips, polished, waxed, trimmed, remained against her lips as her eyes traveled across the homes so subpart to her standards of decency and quality. His hands nervously pounded the wheel, as if urging the car to move at an accelerated pace. If only his power could change the limit signs . . .

His neck craned toward a passing crowd. A woman, with arms full of grocery bags, roughly barked at the four toddling children holding the hem of her worn canary yellow skirt. "Not more than six," he grumbled.

"What was that, dear?"

His hand rudely pointed toward the woman, now on the other side of the street, moving towards the car. "The eldest cannot be more than six, and she has three more! Three! Perhaps if she refrained from whoring-"

"That is quite enough," she chirped, a flowery blush dusting her cheeks.

"If she cannot afford one, then she should not have any of the others. Those children are better off in a foster home if you ask me – if only I had the name of that woman."

"You are an attorney, dear, not a prosecutor." She thought herself clever and witty.

The woman of tousled black locks hovered beside my window. Her eyes, for the briefest of moments, met my own as she clutched the bags to her breast, attempting to limit the chill's access to her flesh. They are brown, harsh and convicting, like the trunk of an old Oak that had survived many winters and summers, fires and blizzards. Sticks and stones have left scars embedded within its roots and base, yet, as all else, it continued to stand for those creatures that depended upon its existence.

We left her behind as we traveled further from the worn homes. She watched as the car rolled away while the children skipped about her waist, some tugging at her with stuffy complaints and dripping noses. I watched as she became tinier, more vulnerable, and shadowed in the scratching trees. After a corner, she was removed from my sight.

The air was bathed with melancholy; few laughs drifted between the crack in the window as my mother rolled it downward. I sulked against the seat, enjoying the breeze at it toyed as a child with my hair. We traveled for a few minutes in complete silence. It was commonplace to sit amongst a crowd without any utterances. Father said it was proper for the men to speak business talk, the women the sip tea, and the young to observe the men so that one day they may be them. '_It is always a comfort to know what you will become._' It was an agitating realization, but one best taken when resolutely accepted without questions, arguments, or complaints – the classic smile-and-nod routine polished to a tee.

There was a field beside the road, half mucky dirt and clods, and half graying grass struggling for vitality. The car stopped once again for a red pentagonal sign, gifting me enough time to take interest in the group roughly tackling one another. Their clothes matched their environment – ratty jeans and cheap shirts – but it was not an insult to me as much as it was to the figures in front. I grinned as one, the largest in mass and muscle, was dog piled by all others. Part of it almost made my want to laugh at their antics, but I could not, for Mother gasped in fright and disgust.

"It is only a football game, Mother," I attempted to reassure her. "I play it often times too."

She smoothed her plaid skirt, adjusting any wrinkles or valleys that had been created. "It is not at all the same, Michele. My, they are filthy."

I wanted to laugh at her ignorance. She had never seen an actual game, just the benefits reaped from one – trophies and awards – bragging rights above all else. But to laugh would be an insult.

"Sit up straight," Father ordered. I tilted my head in question and he fixed his eyes on me, full of anger. "I do not want them to think you are their equal. Sit up and show them proper posture."

His chest puffed outward, but it was already sticking out to begin with due to multiple hardy meals. One must adore fattening meals made by the sweat of non-thanked creatures in penguin costumes. Mother fixed her hair and powdered her nose. 'Shallow.' If I could scream the word, I would have gladly clambered up the nearest tower. However, I obeyed as always, for there is never much choice. Should I refuse – it was a horrid thought.

I straightened my back, smoothing my dress pants and coat, and folded my nimble hands together within my lap, but I still watched the boys. The average age must not be more than sixteen, I believed, but looks are deceiving. I wondered vaguely, as the car moved, if I would see them around. Maybe at school . . .

_New school._

_New friends._

_A blank slate_.

I smirked. I have always enjoyed novels in which a person assumes a different identity. There was no limit as to who I could become in this town. Michael instead of Michele. Sports athlete instead of an intellectual. For once, I controlled a certain aspect of my life. It reposed within the sweaty palms of my folded hands, awaiting molding, careful and delicate crafting by the master of its fate. It was a sweet sensation.

We escaped the stench of dilapidated houses, and the roads expanded to reach markets and stores bordered in clean-cut reds and blues. Mother took careful note of passing shopping areas and hair salons. A church with protruding steeples of silver stones, chiseled statues of the Virgin and her offspring offering their palms in salutation, and stained glass ovals capturing the golden rays radiating between the clouds as the hearth lulled within the firmament, sung Sunday's hymns with clanging bronze and copper tinted bells.

"I nearly forgot that it was Sunday in all of the excitement. Mateo, sing one of your songs to account for today's missed service."

"What shall I sings? Michele?"

I cleared my throat deeply, thinking upon songs I would not mind to hear. There was always one he enjoyed and I could not go astray. "Santa Lucia, Father."

He nodded in approval, and started,

"Sul mare luccica L'astro argento,

Placida è l'onda, Prospero è il vento,

Venite all'agile Barchetta mia.

Santa Lucia! Santa Lucia."

Some boasted he sung as well as an opera man within the ornate buildings of Europe, where Shakespeare and other playwrights once stood, where monarchs and tyrants, some one and the same, sat with exotic creatures upon their laps and jewels around their throats. The verses dripped from his wetted lips smoothly and softly despite his deep baritone vocals. It was pleasant and fitting as the landscape altered from buildings to rolling yards of still emerald blades with brick and steel fencing.

Trimmed trees shaded the cement pathways, casting gloomy shadows in the form of gleaned claws across the streets. Children in fall coats and pants, dresses and shawls, played naively behind the protective barrier whilst knitting mothers keep their watchful eyes upon their brood of young.

"I told you it was like paradise," she beamed .

I dipped my head wordlessly at the clean world about me. Not a speck of dust was out of place – roses were groomed – grass freshly mowed – leaves raked into burning piles –chimney smoke wafted from the roofs as coiling snakes in a mating dance. We ceased our movements before a house, no, a massive structure stretching towards the place only angel's treaded. She clapped her hands with enthusiasm and he chuckled and pointed. It was an imposing abode, a picture from a storybook read to me as a child. Those stories, I never enjoyed them as much as she presumed – it was too ideal to be a reality.

I stepped from the car, my heels clicking the cement in hollow ricochets, and I suddenly knew what it means to be worlds apart.

* * *

AN: Welcome all! This is my very first Outsiders fic. This chapter is more experimental than anything - to give you a taste of my writing style. As you may tell, I am an imagery writer and I usually will not post a chapter less than 10 pages (this is 10). Updates will be slow considering the fact that I have teachers breathing down my back, a paper due, and college applications awaiting my pen. Please, bear with me. And reviews just may get me to stay up an extra hour working on the next chapter seeing as I have a great view of where I desire this story to lead. Please, give me criticism! Misspelled words? Grammatical errors? General cliché? Anything that will aide in toning my amateur ability. About the fic, yes, it is a new character fic, but something I have not seen as of yet within the fandom. Anonymous reviews accepted! Prepare for the ride ladies and gents! 


	2. Chloroform

AN: Thanks for the expressed info so far. I have decided to switch the tenses to past and will later edit the first chapter to fit the following. This story will be slow to develop, but it will follow the plot of the book, but with an added character that may surprise many of you. The canon characters are coming (next chapter maybe?), but I want to ease into the book instead of introducing a flat character. Please enjoy! And please leave a review of any sort! I will try to return the favor!

Chapter 2: Chloroform

Paint. Not white, but neither was it beige. Off-white, mother said. It was everywhere, upon each smooth grained wall, corridor – the ceiling- it was a foamy white pond of stucco, where I could have gazed for hours at the various dents and valleys formulating cryptic images of Virgin Mary's and Picassos. It was intoxicating to be so surrounded by what I imagined a blank, empty slate to look like. No photos, no paintings, no tiny stencil stitched patterns of burgundy like before. No, there was nothing, just a vast expanse of new, and I waited for my mother to figuratively hand me a pencil so that I may draw my life once more upon the walls – as a child with finger colors. But, there would be no colors, just a portrait of black and white.

My heels sent reverberations of clickity clacks and clunks as they danced upon the darkened tiles that created an oceanic sense as it surrounded the large sandy oval island in the middle of the room. I spared a glance at the massive surroundings. Lined cabinets reached to the ceiling with doors upon doors upon doors of fragrant polished brass bands that looped from one end to the other. Their ash grains were so refined, so sanded, that not one pricked my fingers as they traced the length of the cabinet rows before touching the cooled refrigerator. I opened it, and to my wonderment, there was nothing in it. Empty. I thought that they would have packed each nook with fine culinary delicacies from Paris, Venice, and Vienna, but they hadn't – not yet at least. Fine pointed heels clambered upon the tiles.

"Hello, mother."

She exasperatedly flung her purse upon the central isle, strands of hair curled upon her temples, but her reflection within the isle betrayed the defiant strands, and she scooped them into their destined positions. Her purse jingled as she rummaged through it before removing a single handkerchief, rosy pink with white speckles, and dabbing her tweaked brow. "The day is growing in heat as we speak, and here I dared to suggest thicker coats. What a band of sweating swine we would be, hmm? Winter may just be a warm one. I would like that, wouldn't you dear?"

"Of course, mother." She nodded.

"Why," she squeaked, "what do you think? Is this place not magnificent?" She spun with arms wide between the isle and the lengthy glass dinner table purposed for only family meals. _So naïve, like a child with porcelain dolls. They will break one day . . . fall from their country shelves to the ground – a million pieces of hand painted sweat more beautiful than when they were confined to a single frame. A puzzle is always more lovely when it is in pieces – liberated from confinement. So naïve . . . to think she is whole. _

She paused her steps and smartly pointed her finger my way. "Do you know who owned this before us?"

I shook my head. Did I care? Was it of my utmost concern of such a dreaded castle's past, present, or even future? Would it make the peaks more grand or the marble more refined, or even its value increase to magnificent heights that would shock the wealthiest businessman?

_Probably_.

The useful information would most certainly arise at a social, or be quite handy to impress those that would assure my acceptance into universities –Harvard, Yale, Duke -whatever Father and his mentors chose, and later, careers. "Tell me," I gestured with a planted smirk.

"It has such a rich history. Solely aristocratic, I assure you. Mostly English aristocrats, but there were some from Denmark once. Danes I believe they are called. Well, this is surely not the oldest town, when was it founded – 1800s I believe. That is what that lovely man in the suit said. But that is beside the point. Completely irrelevant, really. The true worth is within whom resided in this very house. Isn't everything? You remember the gossip of the Wheathertone family, don't you dear?"

I nodded mechanically once more. I did remember the family quite well. There was a portrait once of their daughters. Hopefully, the artist was partially blind when he depicted their images on his canvas. They were a contrasting pair, one plump with curls, and the other, thin with limp blonde locks. I never cared for either girl – too high of a nose for my own liking, but they had been the headline news of the town, always in á la mode.

"Well, then you know that their father was a royal descendant of one of the dukes in England," she paused, pondering with pursed lips, "now, what was that family title?"

" Gardner? Grovner? Grosnier?"

"Grosvenor, Richard, love. He was the duke of Westminster." Father entered the room, arms full of suitcases shaped in rectangles, pentagons, squares, and even spheres. Black, blue, lavender, honey, red . . .

"Of course! Grosvenor! As we all know, the family became substantially wealthy, but, it was this duke's niece that lived within this very house with her two lovely daughters and husband. It must have been quite a grand lifestyle. Well, tragedy strikes often, and even wealth and power cannot prevent it."

My ears perked at her comments. "What happened," I eagerly questioned, hoping for a classic, treacherous act or illness, like in Julius Caesar or Hamlet, but Mother shrugged.

"Not now, Michele. Well, after them it was simply elite after elite. The Norfnagles, who now own much land in Colorado, and I heard that they are looking at ranching in California. Oh, and mustn't forget the line of Birts. They say that the family held so many balls that the men went to bed in suits and the women never got out of their dresses. Can you imagine sleeping in a corset?"

I couldn't, so I refrained from nodding again.

Her laugh was jovial, and Father heartily accompanied her. "Yes, yes, we will be the new town talk I presume, after all, none who have lived here have suffered the fate of boredom or rejection from mainstream success. This was a smart move, quite smart indeed. We will be successful, and Michele," he turned to me, "you will be the star as always. You see, nothing will change here." His grin framed by a bushy moustache was anything but comforting, and as the contrasting pair conversed, I stole away through one of the many halls.

Having no sense of direction, perhaps the reason I was not the quarterback of my last football team, I simply strolled down one hall, then another, and then, yet, another. They all looked the same; placid faces without expressions. Finally, my feet found the stairs.

One . . .

Five . . .

Seven . . .

It spun around and around.

Fifteen . . .

Twenty-one . . .

Spinning, spinning. . .whitewash.

Thirty . . .

Thirty-two.

Thirty-five

Stop.

I was at the zenith of the spiral structure, and it was silent. The old house devoured any resonance of parental jocularity, and I was left within the melody of my footsteps. Halls shifted one way, and then another. I wondered if anyone in the past became so lost within this maze, that they were reduced to calling for help or reduced to climbing out of the multiple windows. But, maybe not. Both would have been so unorthodox – perhaps they had a map then?

_I would have just climbed out the window . . ._

It seemed like hours before everything disappeared, and there was just one wall – no corners, no halls – just a wall. I glanced around, and beside my shoulder rested a door. A heavy door. Pushing it open, its hinges slightly groaned under the weight only to reveal a normal sized room, and I knew its owner. The bed needed covers – they would be up shortly – and the windows greatly desired curtains, but it was a decent enough match. There were two windows, and beside one of them was a giant Pine tree with thick branches. _Strong enough to hold me even. _

It was a perfect fit.

"Oh! You found a room!"

I nearly jumped. Sure enough, there she was once more. Her eyes dimmed slightly, and her wood carved mahogany smile fluttered up, then down.

"Are you certain you want this room, dear? There are plenty of nicer ones if you look – "

I didn't want "nicer." I wanted this one, but she would never understand.

"It's fine. I like it. When will my belongings be up?"

"Well," her fingers tapped the bed, "shortly. They are setting up the kitchen first. Rebecca, Patrick, and Anthony will be here soon. At least, they best if they wish to remain employed."

Upon my sour frown, her brows curled and she nipped, "Now, I know you and Anthony do not see eye to eye, but he is a fine worker here, and he has done much to help you. Don't be selfish, now. You were raised much better than that."

Sometimes an opening was much too appetizing to resist. Father would know the feeling well.

"Yes, Rebecca has raised me wonderfully, mother. And I would not dare become selfish; it is so unlike any of us."

But, she had already exited the room, and it was probably for the best of my own interest. Grating breaks drew my attention to the window. Below, two men and a woman hopped from a single vehicle while burly men hustled bags and boxes into the house. I never cared for stereotypes much, but each of the three figures dressed in blacks, grays, and whites that could rival any penguin fitted the image of their occupation.

Rebecca was my second mother according to my mother, and the first according to me. Nana she had told me to secretly call her. My grandparents were just mirrors of my parents, so Nana stuck well enough. She was elderly, plump, and had quite a large chin that had scared me as a child, but it now added to her homeliness. Her hands were harsh from the rugged eves in the park and massive evening dinner parties where she was the only one with a paisley apron about her waist. _Selfishness_ . . . _what a thought. _Hers were the first hands to draw my attention to the concept of labor as she patted my forehead when I was a fevered boy of seven. It was winter and it was snowing. So cold was it that she had to start the fire and wrap me in so many blankets that I was swallowed up to my nose. She laid with me for hours, caressing my forehead like a pitiful pup. "Nana," I had asked, "why are your hands so hard?" She did not say anything for a long while. She just ran her fingers across my cheek while the firelight skipped about in her spectacles. "I suppose," she whispered, "it is because I am an old woman."

"But Grandma does not have hard hands, only wrinkly." She had laughed. "You are much too observant, but you are right. If you must know the truth," she pulled me eye to eye, "it is because I work very hard, and I have been for a really long time. Before you were born even, boy, I was your mother's nurse and now I am yours. It's just due to labor."

"You don't have to work," I had protested. "You could just stop cooking and run away." She pulled me into her lap as I examined her fingers distastefully. "I don't want you to have hard hands, Nana." She stroked me again and again before kissing my temple, telling me, "You are quite worth the work, my boy."

_Why do some memories remain so vivid within the mind that the play better than any movie or dramatic reenactment? What triggers the brain to capture certain moments and hold them fast within its vaults? _

I doubt I would ever know. I only know that Nana watched me open presents that year.

The man beside her was often asked if he was her spouse because they appeared so quaint and charming together, like one would see in a painting with an elderly couple beside a warming fire on the snowy night of Christmas. But he was younger than his many creases and crinkles suggested. Patrick, an old Scotsman gifted in servitude. That's what they said. '_Ol' Patrick was surely bred to serve. My, look at h_o_w_ _well he appeals to the_ _guests, obeys orders, and remains to himself, quite the contrary to his lineage you know. Quite handy, indeed!_' Old ladies always did like to jabber like a flock of geese whose necks stretched into everyone's business. But none knew his passion – woodwork. He never failed to grant me a carving upon each holiday or celebration- ducks, dogs, tigers, giraffes, horses, and even wolves - but then again, he never failed to unlock the door on late nights either.

Last of the three, there was Antonio, the man after Father's own golden heart. The man's age hardly exceeded my own, and that is what fueled this subconscious rivalry between I and the smug, Italian, two-faced gent. He was like a jester who held a two sided mask. On duty, he grinned and bowed, waited and opened doors, sang folk tunes, and even playfully bantered with Father and other guests. Once the lights dimmed and heiresses retreated to their sultry rooms, his mask rotated to one of a malicious smirk. It was this face that spied my every movement, flaw, and misdemeanor. I often wondered if his parents were spies in the government, or if he was just silently plotting my murder so that he could daintily sit in my stead. Neither would have surprised me much, for it was, after all, a part of the French nature to be slightly proud, but all in the dinner balls reduced that pride to a tiny mouse against a ravenous lion. It did not stand a chance, the poor critter. It was always such a harsh death.

"Michele!" He shouted. Dare I disobey and pretend I did not hear his brash shouts? Would the ends justify the means? I suppose there would be the satisfaction of his lungs bruising his chest whilst his cheeks colored to a lovely shade of lilac, but the ends were quite harsh. Not really. There were really no ends. Just silence – a disapproving look – a shake of the head – a swish of a finger – and then silence – onto later business. The ends were worse than the means, so I followed the direction of his fading call.

Thirty-five . . .

Twenty . . .

Perhaps they should be negative numbers . . .

Ten . . .

Stop.

"Wow, they sure move fast," I gushed as I entered the now filled living room and kitchen. Mother and Father, along with Nana, Patrick, and Antonio, and random movers, stood around the island or sat on the lime sofa. Mother held a cup of tea while Nana refilled Father's mug. She glanced at me and winked before settling the pot on the stove. "What did you want?"

Taking a sip, Father brushed his moustache with his napkin. "Well, we want to discuss with the main components of this household how matters are expected to work. Rebecca, you are to carry out your maid duties as usual, and Patrick, you are responsible for the yard work. I expect the grass to be in constant tip-tip shape and Margaret will like to begin a garden soon." The gentleman bowed obediently. Father flipped through papers before eyeing a page with an "aha!" expression. "Antonio, you will help me in the office, or, if the case calls, aide in the household chores as well. All of you will have the hours as before unless we are hosting a ball or other such event. I assume you know where your quarters are?"

"Of course we do, Mr. Pugolisly. No need to fret over us, we manage well enough, don't

we now?" Nana chuckled to herself as she poured Mother another cup. "Oh, I know you do Becky," Father responded. He turned to me.

"Michele, I expect the same out of you academically. You begin school tomorrow. Bright and early. Best clothes. Becky will lay them out for you." He eyed me as he rose from his seat. "I highly stress that you make a wise choice in companions, Michele." He sighed and stood before me, his hands landing on my shoulders, causing them to sag under their weight. "Don't disappoint me."

Mother sipped the last drop of tea and waved Nana away as she readily prepared to pour more of the steaming liquid. She too stood in front of me and I suddenly felt that I was under a heavy scrutiny, as if they were eerily searching for something. Like an army general looking for . . . a flaw? Maybe traces of dandruff that may dot my blackened suit, or a smudge of dirt that would imperfect my clean persona. "Listen to your father, dear." Pat, pat, pat. Her nimble fingers poked at my shoulders, straightening the suit to her satisfaction. "He only wants the best for you. There is much riding on this new job and you must make him and I proud. Do you understand?" Up, down. It was so motorized, like she clicked a button to cause my head to bobble in agreement. "I understand."

"Good," she clicked, then followed the path of my father.

I groaned deeply and glanced at Patrick, who sympathetically patted my shoulder and grinned as I glared at his hand. "Suppos' ye have ha'd enough o' that, hey? I would too if I were you. Much too much pattin.' Could drive aye man mad. Me mum pat me shoulder so often I oft' dreamed of her hands fallin' off." I grinned.

"Patrick, that is an awful thing to say. About your own mother, what would she say," uttered Nana.

"Nothin' aye suppose. She would jes pat me even more, jes' for good measure ye know?" This time I burst into a fit of laughter and Patrick winked again before Nana ushered him towards the door with a broomstick. "Why don't you just go start that garden for Mrs. Pugolisly? I am sure she will appreciate it." The old man cackled good-naturedly. "And you," she pointed to me, "don't you worry about tomorrow. You will be fine, but do you truly need my aide in choosing an outfit?" Her plucked brows raised and her lips parted slightly. "No, I think I can manage – "

"Uh-hem."

We each turned to Antonio who was gazing prissily at his nails, examining them closely. "I think I will leave you all." He paused as he went by. He turned as he entered the hall. "I have more important people to associate with. I will leave you," he smirked at Nana, "to your most homely duties as gardener and," he sneered at me, "babysitter."

My fists curled and before my mouth could fully open Nana's hand clamped it shut. "You are better then him, don't you forget it."

"You are too. He is nothing but a smug ass, anyways. Too bad he will never get out of that suit." Nana agreed. "Whelp, aye think I will take a look at a spot for a garden. Good day to ya." Patrick lifted his black cap and dipped his head. Nana rummaged through the cabinets before exclaiming, "Got it!"

"Got what?"

"This!" She held up her feathery brown and white feathered duster and swished it about.

"I will know this house like the back of my hand in a day. Just send me through with a duster and I will spot every nook and cranny no problem!" I didn't doubt her. In fact, I was quite sure that by nightfall she would know which stairs squeaked and in which manner, high or low. She would more than likely notice the tree beside my window and click her tongue in a _tisk-tisk_ manner. It was her nature.

She left me alone. Again, I was alone. Solitude becomes numbing after time, where it no longer actually feels that you are alone. You are just in a room absent of other humans. Seclusion. Isolation. It is all one in the same - all pins and needles that are jabbed and inserted only to not be sensed. It's a habit causing process. I twiddled my thumbs – it was so quiet I could here them smack one another in my lack of coordination. _Tomorrow will come, and it will all be new. Everything is spinning so fast, so fast. The boxes – all empty – the cabinets – filled with my life. MINE. There's in so control in life. It just keeps spinning. Faces enter, then fade. And men change to fit their society. It's suffocating – like anesthesia, the mind just drifts away into the dizzying black circle. Just like chloroform . . .once inhaled . . . deeply . . ._


	3. Vanity Fair

**Vanity**

-

"Michele!"

_Cast the light away from my eyes. Shh . . ._

"Michele!"

_Don't listen. Pretend. Sleep. Refuse to open to her cries. The dawn is an illusion, and it is still night – the window full of stars._

"Michele!"

_Ignore . . . this figment of imagination. Pestering fairy! Blasted sprite dressed in a mademoiselle's garb of glistened rose blessed silk and butterfly breathed pearls! Her sapphire jewels will waste to grains upon a glass seashore, and she will search a lifetime to gather the pieces to make it whole once more. Just a single look once again at her elderly image in its hued mirror shall birth her motivation._

"Humph . . ."

My head throbbed as I opened my eyes to an upside-down world of plaid sheets and cold wood, my side aching slightly as if I had landed upon a stony ground. The light was painful and I groaned as it hit my pupils. For that period of time my lids refused to obey my will that they open, that is, until a shrill voice stung the depths of my ears.

"Michele, get up! Now! Your mother is having a fit yelling for you! You have slept long enough. Up, boy, up!"

The world spun as I jutted up at the cries of Nana, who shook me and chuckled as I peeled the thin strip of daze from my eyelids, only to peer up at her well worn face.

"It's your first day of school!"

She grinned as I inconspicuously grimaced and longed to duck beneath the covers. Swooshing sounds filled my ears and air drafted across the nape of my neck, and I turned to witness Nana tossing various articles of clothing from the closet onto my barren bed. Black shirt – Cobalt shirt – Scarlet tie – Madras jacket – Grey sweater – Raven pants – Brown pants - it was all spread daintily across the silk covers.

"Well, I think your mother will approve of any of these." She touched her lip and drummed her finger across her chin. "Just choose one and be quick about it; you still have to pass her grooming test before she will allow you to step half of a foot out of this house." I mumbled inaudibly into the covers still wrapped about my shoulders.

"Good Lord, boy, get up. It is not like you have never been to school before!" I did not move. "Get up or else I will send in Antonio to HELP you dress and then allocate him to drive you to your new school." Hearing his name was like a glass of thawed ice tossed into the face in the dead dawn of winter – stinging and aggravatingly uncomfortable. Nana exited the room, most likely due to the notion that the threat was valid and terrifying enough to rouse me from morning's last sleepy grip – her fingers with orange painted nails slowly uncurling their grasp upon my pulsating brain. It was always an awkward sensation to be shocked from drowsiness into reality.

Untangling myself from the thick covers, my feet, still humid from their nightly hibernation, stuck to the floor panels. Each step gushed _glopping _noises. I stood before the bed and the wide display of outfits, pondering which would be the wisest choice.

_Black shirt – scarlet tie – black pants. No, much too sophisticated for just one measly day at a new public school. Brown pants – black shirt – no – it does not fit together. Cobalt shirt – black pants – no . . ._

Frustrated, I pulled on the grey sweater, fingered the black pants before choosing the deep brown, and yanked the Madras jacket over my head. I stared into the mirror, satisfied (at least to the greatest extent possible) of my appearance. However, my hair had tangled at odd obtuse angles during the night, so I found myself before the navy bathroom mirror, slopping freezing water over my head while pulling at the tangles with a thin comb. "Oomph," I grunted and grimaced as the comb sported a rather large chunk of black hair. Looking up tentatively I studied my complexion.

_Raven locks, raven eyes, brown skin, and brown lips – everything is so utterly dark – I may as well have been painted black. Black – like the starless nights – like those figures who sit in the upper movie balcony – like the porcelain dolls no child wishes for holiday gifts. If they made such a doll of me, would a child take one with black locks, not tawny or dusky blonde, or with crow eyes instead of cerulean or emerald? The answer is always quite simple. No. 'Tis not desirable. Italiano . . . they whisper it in the streets . . .Ellis Island immigrant . . . where is his green card . . . blast the tiny spirals of DNA that course through my veins . . . curse the hereditary dominance of darkness over light! If a child so presumed to be color blind bemoans a dim doll unsightly, what prevents those who await my presence in the mathematical classroom? Do they know of Father's ranking in their gleeful society of champagne and cocktails, or will it be the habitual process of acceptance – half-hearted – half-disgusted -greetings – blunt rejection – giddy gossip flooded with 'spick' titles – lips salivating in the taste of a lamb ready for the slaughter – then the superhero rescue - high society standing. Father's profile flitting through the halls; soon 'spick' will be replaced with an actual name, a 'good ol' chap,' and I will be welcomed into their club of elites. It's is always the same. Repetition at its finest accord; it's little wonder I despise with the utmost hate any traditional values . . ._

The icy liquid swam the length of my face as it dripped from my head. Tear stained trails recorded their path until the clear drops committed suicide from the edge of my chin. It was refreshing and shocking to sense something so bitter in the early hours.

Footsteps thudded below and shouts traveled through the many halls; some were the shrill demands of Mother, but most were "Yes Ma'ams" from various voices of a feast of possibilities. Emptying the comb and applying necessary toiletries, I supposed I was presentable. At least, I prayed I was . . .

The heavy scent of bacon suffocated the shimmering kitchen, all the while churning my stomach in an unusual repulsion and want. It growled uncontrollably, but when Nana ushered the bacon before my face, it lurched and I shoved the plate across the navy table – far from my nostrils.

"Why aren't you eating," Nana spoke, picking at the sizzling eggs. I shrugged at her back and held my stomach as the yellow masses sent air bubbles bursting around them. The smell was nauseating. Part of my mind cleverly planned an excuse to remain in bed for the day, yet the other reasoned that it was not tiny bacteria invaders that cast my intestines into a frenzy. She peppered the globs and set them on a plate, but instead of placing them before me, she stood still and peered at the bacon set across the table, one eyebrow irked. "Nerves?"

I didn't need to nod for her to know the answer. She bobbed her head, set the plate a good distance from me, and motioned for me to stand so that she may critique my appearance.

"Very nice. I do not think your mother can disapprove of your choice. "

I grinned, bitingly. "I think you might be surprised. She is like a hawk; one little imperfection and the whole world may as well shrivel up because it is no longer worth living within. I swear," I breathed, "sometimes I hate living within the same house. It's like a prison that has been painted to look like a home." I swigged the glass of milk Nana handed me and stood as Mother and Father entered the room, immediately checking my reflection in the glass. Mother, dazzling in a sapphire suit, grinned proudly as she grasped my shoulders and turned me around in her inspection.

"Ah, very good. This will surely impress the Sheldons. What do you think, dear, will your boss approve?" Her grin melted away my sentiments of frustration, and I relaxed my shoulders. "I am glad you approve, Mother."

Father peered from the paper, surveyed me with his eyes and approved with a curt nod and shrug. "I will finish reading the paper in the office," he growled as he turned to leave the room. I moved to grab the backpack Nana held out to me, but his voice froze my movements. "Michele, don't forget what we discussed – image is everything. Get on Sheldon's good terms." He left with little more than a sneer disguised as a grin, focusing upon the black and white print's report on the economy.

"Listen to your father. He is a wise man, and to think, you will one day be like him! Exciting, is it not." I wanted to shake her – to shudder and scream "No!" But, the bitter smile pleased her enough, and she quickly followed Father into the mouth of halls.

"I hate them sometimes."

"Don't say that. They mean well . . . deep, deep down they really do mean well. I know more about that mother of yours than you do, and much of her life would surprise you. You and her are alike on so many accounts. She hated this fictitious lifestyle when she was an adolescent." Nana sighed as she rinsed a coffee mug. "She was a handful, that child. Always sneaking around, determined to defy her parents at all costs. It must have been like a cage to her as well. I declare, she must have been grounded half of her life!" She placed the cup in the cabinet and walked towards me, her hands outstretched. While straitening the collar of the jacket, she closely inspected every inch of me, dusting the shoulders and tugging the sweater to a proper length. "Don't be so hard on her," she whispered as she brushed stray strands across my forehead. "They really do love and care for you, and like any parent, she wants the best, but I presume the definition of 'best' remains unique for each person."

-

The air was cool as it combed my hair. The car rumbled beneath my body and Nana grinned when I glanced at her, all the while keeping my hands firmly planted upon my stomach as it sloshed back and forth, occasionally side to side. My mind whirled at the thoughts of the building that loomed a ways towards the eastern side of town. The day, to my utter displeasure, was bright and warmer than expected; however, the nipping wind demanded the protection of a jacket. When Nana turned a rather sharp left, my breath hitched and a dull pounding commenced on my temples – the brown roofs and stairs of the school jutted towards the sky in the distance. The traffic slowed and Nana hummed gently to herself while I attempted to keep the few nibbles of banana in my stomach.

Looking at me, Nana ceased mid-hum and frowned. "Your nerves cannot be that bad! Honestly, it is just a building filled with boys like yourself; what has gotten into you these past few days, it is as if you have lost all confidence in who you are. Sit up, now, and breathe – it is only school."

_School . . . a place filled with more than boys . . . it was a pond of piranhas amiss unfortunate minnows . . . they never stand a chance in comparison to the higher rank. The strongest always survived, but I'm entering the pond at a slightly higher rank than minnow. And what of confidence – is it wrong to be proud? Pride – like Father and Mother – like that bastard Antonio? Or, pride like the old chaperon beside me and the ancient Scotsman back at the house? Was it pride at all . . . surely there must be another bloody name for their aura of repulsive arrogance when juxtaposed to humble confidence!_

My fingers massaged my temples as the car lurched forward.

"We are almost there, do you have all of your things ready? Nothing is missing correct? It would be quite awful to be unprepared the first day, not to mention the irresponsible first impression it would leave . . ."

"I get the picture," I mumbled. Nana raised her brows at my tone, but I did not apologized. I focused upon the building as it drew ever nearer, and thanks to her ignorance, I mentally and silently went over every material I may need for the day, making certain that it was in the bag at my feet. "I know why you are so anxious."

Her words temporarily paralyzed me, but I shrugged it off carelessly and leered at the approaching structure, waiting for the cars to unload students while studying those that were already giggling and patting each others' backs as they walked up the stairs. "Believe me, this is not foreign to an old woman . . ."

Her words were drained, getting further and further away, blurred and distant, as if I was being sucked within a deep tunnel. The pain burned as I madly blinked in hope that it would ease the tension. _You don't have a clue what it is like! It's madness in there, and I am suppose to play multiple roles like a clown. . . Father's role . . . their role . . . is there time or room enough for my own decided role to be chosen . . . my own choices to be made by my own mind rather than 'superior' others?_

The pain cooled as the car slowed within walking distance of the Edison High School entrance. Part of me wanted to firmly remain seated, refusing to budge an inch like I had so many years ago as a terrified child, but despite the urgings to retreat I perfunctorily grabbed the bag, opened the door, and was standing outside before the voice shouting and waving a white flag could be thoroughly listened or rationalized with. The wind caused goose bumps and Nana smiled sympathetically in a poor attempt to cheer me up. _She means well, so smile back!_

She knew the robotic grin was fake.

"Michele, you listen to me. Obey your Father-" Mentally, I groaned and began to tune her out and watched as a gaggle of plaid skirts scurried together in a fit of laughter, a tantalizing redhead amongst them . . .

"Michele!"

My neck cracked as I stared into her flaming eyes. When she wanted to be heard, by God or death, she was going to be heard!

"Try to listen this time. You must listen to your Father, for so much is riding upon your behavior and with whom you find friendship." Her voice was pleading, almost desperate. "Now I know you. Don't think for a moment I am demanding something so harsh without compassion, but obeying that man is the greatest advice I can give you. It is wise, and I trust that the crowd he seeks for you to reflect is just as wise a suggestion."

My eyes roamed over the gathering crowd, a slight chasm was already noticeable. Fine leather and wool jackets conjugated at the top of the stairs while smoke colored and patched over shirts loomed around the edges and streets, grinning and sparing suspicious sneers at the pack of wolves who were simpering right back at them. One boy laughed loudly, and my thoughts returned to Nana.

"Look," she softly chided, "make whatever friends you wish, but keep the ones you know are not well esteemed far from your father."

I nodded mutely, head still slightly spinning as the thick atmosphere cast beads of sweat on my forehead. Certain figures peered curiously at me as I stood before the open car door, and a heat rose within my cheeks. Bestowing a comforting smile to Nana, I pulled away from the vehicle and closed the door.

"Well, I suppose it is time for you to get going. Chin up, and remember, stay who you are!" She mimicked her advice, and for once that day I naturally revealed my teeth. Leaning in the window, I hushed, "Nana, I don't think you know a thing about how awful this day could - probably will – go - not the slightest notion in the world." With that said, I moved from the car as she sped away.

Various faces passed and bumped into me as I veered towards the steps, mind set on claiming my class schedule, directions to those classes, and a wonderful first impression with each professor. Those at the bottom of the steps glared accusingly while I brushed past them, and many cleared a path as if I was plagued by malaria. _I don't look sick, so why the hell are they acting like it? You would think they lacked any proper social skills! Is a 'hello' too damn hard to utter, or have they all taken an early morning vow of silence!_

But the only silence that existed was when I passed them . . .

Heels clopped on the cement steps and those at the top studied me, even more so as I rested my hand on the door handle, more than ready to shove it open and be engulfed by the seemingly protective walls. One boy with dark curls and wearing a Bleeding Madras jacket glanced at my clothes before offering a small smile. His hand extended from his pockets and he offered it casually. "Name's Randy. You're new, aren't you?"

The sigh that escaped my lips sent his eyebrows rising, but in an understanding fashion.

"Yeah, I am. My name is –" My mouth ran dry as I scrambled for the words to say, my mind twisting between deceit and convenience. _Michele or Michael . . . is there much of a difference? In all honesty, the are not Italian, so how can I expect them to pronounce it in Italian form? A name is a name, and the bearer of it should control it fully . . ._

I licked my lips. "My name is Michael. Nice to meet you." He grinned again and quickly introduced the cropped brunette beside him, while instinctively placing a hand upon her hip, and several others who crowded the area. Their names were forgotten as soon as they were heard, but it was safe to presume, to the best of my abilities as a psychic, that I would have opportunities to learn them again.

"How do I get to the office?"

He pointed. "Go straight, then turn two lefts. It is right there. The lady is a bitch, so don't expect much help from her. Find me if you are lost – the locker is straight ahead next to Bob's," he spoke while thrusting a thumb at a blonde headed kid leaning against the wall, laughing at a silent joke between the red-headed beauty and he. I nodded in thanks and Randy waved me off, saying, "Just watch your back in there. Some of the trash ain't so friendly." I didn't understand what he meant, and frankly, interpreting his lingo was the furthest thing from the long list in my mind.

The school was nicely heated with not many students crowding the halls. I found the office in a nice enough time, but to my unhappiness, found that Randy's words about the lady, Ms. Loughlin, to be true. _Too true._ She idly and lazily handed me the slip of classes. "Didn't fit into Spanish so we had to put you in French. I sincerely hope that meets your satisfaction," she nasally rasped with narrowed eyes.

"It's -"

_SLAM!_

The upper, clear portion of the whitewashed door banged closed as she turned away before I could even think about asking another question. _How convenient for her . . . _I glared at her hunched back as she slurped steaming coffee and spun around the corner, immediately toppling over someone. Each of us landed in curses, but I, being the oddly larger of the two, sprung to my feet as the boy scurried to his. Inklike pupils fixed their slant on the cuffs of my jacket before meeting my own obsidian eyes. My mouth opened to apologize to the sable-haired, coal dust complexioned boy, but I never had the chance A fist grasped my neck and pushed me into the nearby wall with the force of an anvil.

"What the hell do you think you are doin' you goddamn Soc," the invisible boy hissed loudly. While holding my head against the wall, he addressed the boy I had tripped, but my head spun with the force of his attack, and the familiar throb in my temples resurfaced with hurricane-like furry. _What the hell now? What could shatter this day more – he could throttle me to death – I bet Nana would never hold such assurance as to how 'well' she 'knew' high school._

The pain blinded my eyes and I forced myself back, twisting from his grip. Cold eyes met mine and the rusty side-burned boy pursed his lips, a third one standing nearby beside the dark one. _They do travel in packs . . ._

I grinned acidly at the three, reaching down and retrieving my slip, now crumpled. "Thanks," I muttered sarcastically as I held it in mock bow to them. Sideburns turned to the Raven. "Did he hurt you, kid?" Raven shook his head and scraped his foot along the tiles until they squeaked their protest. Sideburns nodded and glared at me. "Good."

"I'm fine, thanks for asking," I nipped straight back.

"Who are you, Mr. SuperSoc?"

I did not understand the obviously intended insult, but I accepted the challenge with savoring relish.

"The name's Michael." I folded my arms haughtily. "I don't need to know yours; I think I already have an idea of what you are. They warned me already about you-" I never had the chance to finish before the boy smiled and cackled. I stood, completely confused. Holding his sides, he peered up. "Boy, they sure sink their teeth in quickly don't they?" He directed it at the two boys who were grinning along with him. "Vampires, all of them. You sure do talk like a regular Social. By God, if you are gonna insult me I don't need a formal introduction." Any pride melted in the flush of my cheeks and I slumped against the wall. "You ain't a normal one are ya?"

"What do you mean by that – uh," I stammered, at a loss for names.

"Two-bit." He smiled at my scrunched face. "Shoot, that ain't nothing. This here is Ponyboy, and the one you bulldozed is Johnny. Michael, right?" I confirmed with a bob of my head. "What did you mean by saying I ain't normal. A normal what?"

"A normal Soc," he sighed, bored. "They travel in groups. It's a tradition – always travel together or risk a blade. Socs don't have to worry about the blade part so much; if any of us tried to stick one of them we could kiss our days of freedom goodbye."

My mouth formed an 'O,' and I pretended to understand his gibberish. Flinging an arm about Johnny, he messed up his hair and tugged the kid down the hall. "Catch you later Pon," he shouted at the auburn headed kid who lagged behind.

"I'll see you all later," I called after him, but he turned back and shook his head with a frown, his eyes flaming like they had when I first saw him.

The bell rang loudly and I swore beneath my breath. Looking at the list, I read:

**_Algebra II - - - Mr. Thurmond - - - B2_**

_B2 – am I suppose to know where that is? So much for first impressions!_

The kid peered at the list. "It's down that hall, on the right," he quietly said and pointed towards the southern wing of the building. "Thanks," I breathed in relief, shrugging on the backpack. He smiled warmly, but his eyes betrayed the fake trust. Students flocked the caramel toned halls with shouts, screams, whoops, and hollers that bounced from wall to wall. Finely clothed boys quirked their brows as they passed us.

"I'll see you around then, maybe?" My stomach lurched as his eyes drooped when a troop of Madras jackets passed. I followed the exchange of glares, studied the contrasts, and the reality hit like lightening.

His green eyes flared. "No, I don't think you really will see me." He shrugged and rushed swiftly in the opposite direction.

"Some meeting," I murmured half-heartedly. A large hand landed on my shoulder and Randy grasped my slip.

"We have the same class! Let's go." He looked at the path Ponyboy had taken. His arm looped across my shoulders. He sneered vague insults, the repulsive vanity of his tone was threatening, commanding, and admirable.

"I think we need to talk . . ."

* * *

Ah, I told you updates would be slow. Long, but slow. Please, offer any criticism or even suggestions you may like me to incorporate into this story. (i.e. characters, a situation, etc.) I will stick with this, promise. As a small insight, this will follow the events of the book (i.e. movies, park, trial, etc.) I hope you enjoyed this chapter, for some reason it was difficult to write . . . perhaps because of deciding how everyone meets . . . who knows . . . just enjoy the ride! 


	4. Tough Tuff Lessons

**Tough "Tuff" Lessons**

The lunch bell did not ring a second too late. My head swam with the early lessons that broke the summer trance of the complete lack of intellectual thought. To my pleasure, I made my first period class and each teacher thereafter warmly welcomed the disgusting heaps of praise I lavished upon them. For professors, they were quite dense and oblivious. Well, not so dense as far as recognizing the outfit I wore as being the mark of a so called 'Soc.' The being in the suit was treated with respect, and it nearly churned the pits of my stomach when they smiled comfortingly each time they called my name. _My name . . . it was no longer Michele. It was erased, washed, and repainted. Michael dripped from their lips and it was wonderful. There was no Italian likeness! The blasted bloodline that connected me to such an impoverished history had been rewritten, and few turned their heads at my contrasting skin tone – few dared to under the rich circumstances of my lifestyle. But, it was not the sweet honey flavored freedom I had hoped it to be._

Randy spoke quickly as he and his posse traversed the hallways. Part of his speech contained crude jokes about the dainty brunette while the other half of his vocal energy was spent on harsh reprimands to the "scum of the earth," as he had properly named them. From the moment we took our seats in Mr. Thurmond's homeroom class, he explained the workings of the city. _Workings – such an improper word for the day-to-day rituals of this relatively small town. They lived in a vacuum that twisted them about in a storm of repetition. In school – they insulted the shiny haired boys in old clothes. Outside – they hunted them, yes, hunted. Like they were beasts and had lured them with their scent of fresh blood. He bragged oh so highly of his captures, his many victories over outnumbered and oblivious kids walking home or wandering about their rotten neighborhood. Who are the animals and who are the men in this cynical game of cat and mouse?_

Randy's words made my brain throb with questions. I wanted to understand the society they lived and I focused every brain cell upon his lectures, but the more he detailed how his life worked, the more hopeless and lost I became within the world he thrived. His lips moved with rapid pace, and at times he became so enthusiastic that his arms danced in the air or mimicked one of his exploits. He bragged about the status of his family, the wealth of his girl, and the many brawls that purpled his face. How the three fit together in his gleeful mind, I did not know, for the image of pain and happiness within a single breath seemed to be more of an oxymoron than the synonyms he made them. I never got to say much of anything, but sat as a pupil before his master, sucking in the fountain of information and guidelines he laid. Many of his victories hardened my stomach into a knot, but a second later it would thaw; he alternated from a heartless creature into my amiable friend within minutes. It was sickening, alluring, and enticing.

We passed a group of poorer kids. They were young, probably terrified freshmen, the minnows of the sea. And here I was – a part of the school of sharks perusing the halls in dominance – a sweet sensation. Randy glared heatedly at them and they flinched.

"Greasers are at the bottom of the barrel in this town," he assured me. "They're the ones who will only grow up to become like their parents. It's," he stuttered, "like a cycle with them. It happens over and over."

"And they feed off of our high dollars with the state," sneered a dirty blonde. Trevor, that was his name if memory served correctly. They nodded in mutual and friendly agreement.

The rambunctious chatter filled the halls as we entered the cafeteria. The atmosphere reeked of half-cooked food and over pasted desserts. The scents swirled before my nose as we each grasped a tray and perused the food. There was nothing particularly delectable: sandwiches, fruit, apple sauce, Jell-O, cookies, and cartons of milk.

"You see, all of us live on the upper end of the city. The West side. That's where you live?" I nodded. "Around Olympia Drive," I said.

"Good area, Bob lives there. I live up at Canyon Avenue. Not far. But all of us live around the same area. All of us will go on to top universities and become like our fathers. We'll always be at the top, being the main sources of wealth for the economy – "

"And they will be at the bottom, sucking us all clean of every dollar we earn," spoke a deep voice. Bob Sheldon pushed his way over to us, eyeing me carefully. I had not seen him since the morning, and Randy elbowed me as I eyed him right back. Something in the pit of my stomach told me that he was a force to be reckoned with, and even less taunted or tested.

"You remember Bob – best buddy." The blonde smiled and held out his hand. It was firm as he shook my own. "Michael."

"I remember. I also remember you were hanging out with that group over there this morning." His voice was like bitter lemonade: candy coated until it was sour. His eyes narrowed like a lizard studying the subtle changes of its environment, the different motions of its potential adversary or companion. He plucked the apple from my tray and bit into it, the juices never dropped from his lips but glinted on them sadistically. I followed his eyes and watched the side-burned boy and his two friends, one of them Ponyboy, moving through the cafeteria. They kept their heads low and they looked much more threatening than when I had met them. Others dressed as they, bearing the same drawn and dark appearance, shuffled quickly through the scented room, always heading straight for the door leading to the parking lot. They were escaping the stuffy room of well-to-do aristocrats in order to join the comforts of their own class division. I supposed these boys were doing no different.

Surveying the room, I noticed that it was a sea of high or middle class people, with only a table or two hosting the so called "greasers." Their hair was slicked back in the shiny ooze that defined their social status, in our eyes, but characterized their attitude and degree of threat in theirs'. Many brown haired boys wore leather jackets, and even more wore the defining shirts with half-sleeves. Their shoes were scratched from weeds, and many of their faces bore scars. But, rather than noticing their appearance, and even more so the scantily clad appearance of the women who hung upon their arms, it was their eyes that screamed who they were. Their eyes - like mad animals - always shifting from one hall to the next, one face to another.The whites of their eyes gleamed while their pupils constricted each time one passed by. It was savage and pitiful all at once, and I wondered if Bob or Randy, or even the quiet redheaded boy who clung to Randy's side noticed the difference between the concrete and shady stare of their irises in comparison to the cool and relaxed stare of their own.

Two-bit passed us without a second glance, as someone does something that is so common and methodically boring and predictable. Some hushed curses at him and he hurled them straight back. It was admirable, I suppose. The other two quietly followed. The black haired boy watched his feet more than where he was going, and his shoulders hunched at the various vain shouts. Ponyboy walked steadily behind him and stared at each face as he passed by. Bob jutted his hand outward, halting the dark boy. His breath hitched and part of my conscience screamed at me to push his arm out of the way, but the stronger side ordered me to remain silent.

"Where do you think you're going, grease?" Bob glanced at Randy, who assured him with a feathery smile. Ponyboy tugged the kid's jean jacket, urging him to follow him around the tables. "Let's go Johnny," he pleaded. As they turned, Bob lunged and grabbed Johnny's jacket, pushing his back against the tables. My mouth betrayed a squeak of protest, but shut quickly when Randy gave a harsh glare. Johnny's eyes blinked furiously, and he wet his lips in nervous unease. Randy held Ponyboy at a distance while others either watched on in amusement or ignored the seemingly custom event. "Aren't you going to introduce us, Michael," Bob beckoned with a wily smile.

My lips dried. The glare Ponyboy emitted burned my skin, but I shook my head nonetheless, remembering my Father's words and Nana's plea. _Conscience has no place in here. They're just greasers! Greasers! They suck you of all your money! They are the sewer rats of society! Ignore it – his stare – the subtle shaking as the hands strengthen their hold on the jacket. Be numb! Laugh, god damn, laugh!_

"Why, I thought they were friends of yours! No?" I hated him, then, as he tested me, tempting me to release any sympathy for them that would ruin any attempts of joininghis group. It was a trap! I hated him more than I have ever hated anyone in so short a time. "I don't know them, really," I hissed through my teeth. Bob's eyebrows raised and he turned to Johnny. His ringed finger jabbed a bruise above his right eye. "Did your scumbag father give you that, grease? I bet he beats you good, doesn't he? Beats you black and blue while you crawl on your pathetic belly and beg him to stop!"

My stomach quaked with protest. Johnny's breath increased with each syllable. I did not know what held my arms from beating the far larger boy, or what stole the voice I used to never mind using. I stared on, paralyzed to the cool tiles.

"Boys, move it along," the lunch lady hollered while slapping apple slop onto a girl's tray.

Bob smirked. "Bet he hits your mother too – "

He never got to finish as Two-bit drove an elbow into his ribs. Johnny and Ponyboy hustled past us and Two-bit glared coldly and smoothly at the group. _He has to know he was outnumbered. Only an idiot would take on a group of five!_

He did not throw a punch, but his presence steamed the room with a tension a razor could slice into cold cuts. "Stay away from him, you got that," Two-bit snarled, flashing at his hip a pointed metal blade. Bemused, Bob tested, "Or what?" The smile on Two-Bit's lips curled my stomach, and without another word he back away and made a swift slashing motion in front of his neck. His eyes met mine last, and they were callous, dark, and unforgiving as he exited the room. I did not know which emotion was worse, but the shame heated my face.

"We'll get them back," assured Trevor. "What do you mean?" My voice shook as it spoke.

"We're going to see just how good of friends we are," soothed Bob, placing an arm around my shoulders. "Ever been to the East side?" I nodded and his eyes lit up with a fiery passion. "Well, we're going to go there today. After school. You coming along for the ride?"

The others voiced anticipation and ravenous enthusiasm. Only a handful of times within my life did the roof of my mouth become sticky and dry. It was as fly paper in capturing my tongue and holding it captive at the top. A few inaudible grunts and half-formed words leaked through. The East side . . . the infamous location I had passed coming into the town, where the grass was permanently stained with poverty and beer and where the flowers ponged more of cigarette smoke than gay aromas. Yet, it was also here that wide-eyed women walked in the cold and shabby boys played in the fields. The place of such contrasting emotions and portraits was their feeding ground for entertainment, and each story Randy reveled read as a storybook in my mind over and over until I could envision the bloody faces and hear the swears of their victims. It was no anonymity why they would be going there . . . why I would be going with them . . .

It was not a Dairy Queen or movie theater that drew their vehicles to that side of the railroad tracks. It was not the cheap prostitutes and whoring girlfriends that they drunk heavily those nights to seek and conquer. The lust of the flesh, as the Sunday preacher always bellowed, was not the lust that enflamed their veins and arteries. No, it was a different lust, an alternate yearn to sense the tingle as flesh pounded flesh and scarlet liquid tinged the tongue with a metallic savor. The look in Randy's eyes as he relived his journeys across the tracks revealed the addicting thirst those sensations inflicted. Like liquor and cigarettes.

Trevor sharply nudged my side. "Are you coming or what?"

My voice still failed. Randy spoke close to my ear, "You'd be committing suicide to not come. This is an initiation into the group." At my widened eyes his tone smoothed. "Hell, I know it's a shock at first, but once you feel that first punch, its all pleasure. Like sex and tequila." He smiled wistfully and the glue at the roof of my mouth melted just as Bob steered us to a reserved table with two guys already finished with their packed meals. He addressed Randy in blind ignorance of my presence. "Is the kid coming or is he too righteous to be caught doing such an activity?" The tone of his voice dripped rattlesnake venom, and it stung. I moved to defend my own honor when Randy quickly interjected, "He's coming." He stared at me as we all took a seat on the cool benches. Meeting my eyes he informed the attentive group of the day's events, but placed specific concentration upon me. " We take one car, got it? Two is too obvious and risky. If we get caught by one of them with their gang, we're not only screwed but we'll all be sporting a swollen nose, and Marcia ain't attracted to that, get the point?" Trevor and the redhead displayed sheepish smirks, but Bob shifted in annoyance.

"Yeah," he rasped, "we all get the picture. Look, we'll take my car cause its got the most room. We all go home, get in some loose clothes, and we'll stop by at five. You all got that?" His eyes landed on me and I firmly husked, "Yeah, I got it." The angel on my shoulder repeatedly slapped me as I gulped the slightly warm milk.

Randy joined the others in conversation before joining Marcia in the corner of the lunchroom. For the first time that day, I glanced at Bob and found him staring fixedly at me, grinning like a cartoon fox. Naturally, I leered at his expression. Leaning over the table, he calmly said, "Kid, we're going to see which side of the tracks you really belong." The blue of his eyes darkened to a navy hue. "Whatever innocent virginity you got, you're going to loose," he smiled impishly, "are you sure you're ready for that?"

I never answered, but spooned the bitter apple sauce into my mouth, and swallowed.

-

The school day ended without any spectacular display of fireworks or joyous "hoorays." The bell just clanged loudly and people scattered wildly to cars and buses. Randy joined me in the hall, beside the locker I claimed nearest his and Bob's. I sifted through the books, looking for which ones I needed as Randy rambled on about what to expect later that evening.

"Okay, it's simple. We scout the territory until we find a bum walking alone. It's all fair. They know never to walk alone. They know what we'll do if we find them, so when one does walk alone, he signs his own permission slip for us to display our hatred for his kind. But, we got to do it fast, see," he spoke rapidly, "we got to beat him down before his shouts call his gang. It's custom for them to stick around the area their gang lives. The Shepherd's gang stays around the same blocks and the Brumly boys stay in their own areas, including the parks. If we don't finish up in time to beat it out of there, well, it's going to hurt."

"Has," I stuttered, "has anyone died doing this, I mean, on either side?"

Randy paused for the moment and studied the back of his locker, drumming his fingers along the edges in contemplation. _That's a yes if I ever saw one. Why do people go silent in an attempt to construe a lie? Everyone knows it will be a lie, and everyone knows that when there is a long silence, it means that the answer is the worst option. Yes, people have died . . . but how . . . and who? Did they really beat these kids to the point of unconsciousness, to the point that their body breaks and their heart ceases. How? How can I be expected to fit into their molding when the only thing I ever hit was a dog as a young and temper prone child?_

Nonetheless, despite my knowing of the answer, the confirmation cast a detestable sensation in my stomach and heart.

"A year ago a group of Seniors jumped a small kid. The kid and his gang had jumped one of their little brothers and they wanted revenged." His breathing deepened and he slammed the locker door shut. "One of them had brass knuckles, and it was the first time he had any experience in using them. Some of the Socs get killed, some of the greasers get killed. The only safe ones are in the middle. They're just like the railroad tracks we cross over – no one ever fights on the tracks, just on one side of them." He ended the story and we walked the halls in silence. His voice drew sympathy I never thought I would have, but the sadness in his eyes made my heart bleed compassion.

"Why do you do it," I questioned. "How did everything start? Why do you hate them and why do they hate you?"

"I don't really know. It just all started a while ago and became a tradition. We are born hating each other, I suppose. We just do. We're different. I mean, we even talk different. You heard how they speak and how we speak. It's like two vernaculars of two worlds. Two countries. We both want one another's territory, so we fight. The only thing they don't realize in is that the richer country always wins . . ."

He asked for directions to my house and I timidly, but gladly gave them. He hopped into his car and fingered the keys around the ignition. "Just make sure you're ready, kid," he ordered before peeling from the parking lot, leaving me with a backpack slung over my shoulder in silence.

-

Silence was what there was on the drive home. Nana urged conversation with every attempt known to man short of bribery with chocolate cake or diamonds. I answered in nods and short answers, to her displeasure. Soon, she contented herself with humming along to a Beetle's tune, but her gaiety annoyed me and I resisted the notion to scream at her to shut-up.

The house was empty except for Nana, Antonio, and I, and I rushed up the spiraling staircase just as Antonio entered the foyer with a clownish face and sinister eyes that plastered themselves upon my obviously unhappy face. I did not want to deal with him then. There were a thousand places I could tell him to rot and die, but none sounded pleasant enough as the sweet stillness of my room.

The bed was soft as I cast my body across it. The clock on the wall ticked gently and I dozed in and out of reality.

_I never knew how it felt to exist in a vacuum. The head pounds as it is thrown from one end of the vessel to the other, and there is no control over the limbs. Even the mind is lost within the spiral. It sinks lower and lower into the black pit, loosing consciousness and conforming. Conforming . . . what a blasted word for the grip upon my existence. Michele . . . Michael . . . soon I will become a John or Matthew. Just to fit in! But I did it! I'm doing it! For Father, for Mother, and even for Nana. I'm using these leeches to bleed any flaw that they may see, so I may fit their clay mold of perfection. I'm losing myself for them, and the awareness is both saccharine and bitter! So damn confusing!_

I lay on the neatly made covers for a long while, listening to the soft tick-tocking of the clock as it drooped ever closer to the curved number I waited upon and dreaded more than anything else in my present life . . .

**

* * *

AN: Anonymous reviews are now accepted. I just realized that I had the block on by mistake. I know this story is slow to start, but from here on out everything will be medium to fast pace. I want a well-developed character whose personality you can all get to know. I am also torn between two story lines it can take after the next chapter . . . please lend any suggestions of what YOU would like to see happen. Thank you for all of the reviews. I will try to return the favors as time permits. PLEASE review! I really want to know what you all think!**


	5. Five O'clock Shadows

Author's Note: Wow, it has been a long time since I updated. For a while I lost inspiration, and when it reappeared, my computer crashed . . . irony is beautiful. But, the interest in the story is back, and hopefully, it will stay. Here is chapter five! Review!

**Chapter Five: Five O'clock Shadows**

The car horn blared in front of my house as I hustled down the stairs. The pants and jacket I wore were loose and I enjoyed the free movement they permitted. Nana beckoned from the kitchen at who was causing such racket, and I humbly admitted that I was going out for the evening with a band of friends. Her smile lit up the room and she clasped her hands in delight. She asked who was waiting in the car.

"Bob Sheldon, Randy Anderson, Trevor Johnston, and Robby Parker," I confessed, quite pleased at the wealth of names that emitted from my lips. She beamed with a warm pride. "See, and you thought that you would not make any friends. And, you listened to your father! How late will you be out? Not after dark I hope." I gulped deeply and she poured a glass of milk, which I refused.

"I don't know how late. Not past dark – I don't think at least. But don't worry," I gave her an assured smile, "we're mature. Nothing is going to happen." Her head dipped and I hastened to the door.

My teeth gritted together as the image of Antonio met me at the wooden structure. He casually leaned against the door and sneered as I murdered him with my glare. "You actually made friends, Michele. Impressive."

"Sorry I can't say the same for you," I responded haughtily. His eyes narrowed to slits. "Where are you going this late? You never go out after school. My, what would your mother say?"

I hissed, "She'll be quite too proud at the company I kept to punish me for obeying father's damn wishes." His smug expression died and he scuffed the tiles angrily. The car blared once more and the beating of my heart intensified. Bob's distant shouts reached my ears.

"Michael, get your ass in the car or we're leaving you here!"

I pushed Antonio away from the door, but when I spun around to close it, his tanned hand grasped the edge and he husked tauntingly, "Why do they call you Michael, Michele?" I could feel the color sink from my cheeks and my head spun for a logical excuse. None appeared that was reasonable, so I settled it by quipping, "Just shut your trap," before slamming his hand in the door and escaping into the blue mustang while he cursed the very ground I walked upon.

-o-

"It took you long enough! What the hell did you have to do, primp to go to the East side?" Bob's face scrunched when he was annoyed.

"No, just trouble with the work."

Bob had caught Antonio's form and grinned at the statement. "All of them are the same," he muttered.

"All of who," I questioned with apprehension at the look of malevolence upon his face.

"Shut it, Bob," hissed Randy, who sat comfortably in the front seat while I and the two others were cramped in the back.

"Who are ya'll talking about," asked the oaf, Robby. His body doubled mine, at the least, and his hair was styled in the typical bushy curls that only made his round face look rounder. He was thicker than a thirty cent malt when he did speak.

"Shut it," Randy repeated, glancing at me. I shrugged and listened to "Nowhere Man" as it played over the radio.

The sun was quickly setting, casting the roads in obscurity. No one spoke for a long while. Randy flipped through various stations, cursing at random points when an ill favored song blared through the speakers. Bob, on the other hand, held one hand steadily upon the steering wheel while the other cradled a bottle of alcohol. He took long swigs as we got deeper into the East side.

The car thudded as we passed railroad tracks and into an environment of papered roads and overturned garbage cans. Streaks of gold and amber colored the sky, and had my stomach not been in a solid ball of anxiety, I may have found it to be quite beautiful and worth more than a quick glance. Robby breathed heavily next to my ear – a sign something was going to happen.

"We're almost there," drawled Bob, "Keep your eyes open." His eyes met mine in the driver's mirror, and he grinned like a fox. "That means you too, Italian boy." I matched his gaze and shuffled uncomfortably as Trevor quietly chuckled. Randy nudged Bob's arm and turned to me.

"Look, here is how it goes. We find a loner, we corner him, get some kicks, and then we beat it, savvy? They travel in packs, so we got to get this done fast. Don't leave any time for some of his buddies to show up or else it could get pretty ugly in seconds. We move then get back in the car and go, okay?"

For some reason unbeknownst to me, my voice became impaired, so I nodded feverishly. "Excited Mikey-boy? You're going to become a true-blooded Social." He took a sip of beer. "Should be an honor," he slurred.

"Yeah, it's not every day someone like you gets this opportunity," scoffed Trevor.

The beat of my heart hastened its palpitations. I returned my sights to the window. Everything was vacant save for a few kids playing in the yards and bearded men conversing outside of rundown shops. We passed the DX gas station where two boys with slicked brunette hair watched us pass with noticeably careful suspicion. I did not blame them in the least. Our bodies were jostled on the uneven roads, and I suddenly realized that we had taken so many rights and lefts that I would not have the slightest clue of how to escape the East side.

Bob turned sharply onto a street marked Brandson Road, but it could barely be called a road. The asphalt had been worn away, broken in some unknown jigsaw puzzle. Half the car sped on blackened pavement while the other rumbled over dirt. Scraggly trees with autumn leaves captured the street with its skeletal shadows. Pitiful homes decorated one side of the street and open and un-mowed fields the other. No one appeared to inhabit the area. Who in their right minds would even desire too?

"Where the hell is everyone," muttered Robby. He thumped his hairy fist against his thigh and squinted out the window. "Hold your horses," responded Randy. It was not more than five minutes later that Bob hissed, "There."

I shoved my head forward to peer out the front window. There, walking aimlessly alongside the dirt portion of the road, no more than two-hundred feet ahead of us, was a boy. His jet-black hair gleamed almost like sweat as the sunlight that pervaded the scraggly tree branches caught the substance in his hair. He was small in frame, thin, but decently tall. For the moment, I felt my muscles relax . . . this kid would not be difficult to fight. I had been imagining a Goliath of a man that Bob would coyly urge me to confront. I knew he would be more than thrilled and entertained to watch me get stretched like taffy and pulverized. I would not put it past him to munch on buttery popcorn as I screamed for help, but I doubt Randy would have allotted him the opportunity. Thank the heavens for Randy.

"Get ready!" Bob hooted before revving the engine, careening towards the oblivious boy. I clenched the seat cushions until they squished between my fingers. Mixed with the alcohol, Bob's senses were far from possessing the ability of precision and direction. The car swerved to the left, and I rashly hollered, "The other way! You're going to go into the damn houses! Turn!"

"Shut up," he bellowed, pushing my face away as he twisted the wheel to the right and slammed the gas pedal, aiming directly towards the tanned greaser. By then, he had seen the mustang that stood out like an oasis in the Sahara, and was hastily backing away. He was not fast enough. Perhaps it was the shock of witnessing a vehicle speeding towards him that caused his slow reaction, or more so, the lack of instinct to run without daring to look over his shoulder. Either way, before I could comprehend what was occurring around me, the car had jerked to a sudden and unexpected halt which sent my body lurching forward. Instead of watching Robby and Trevor exit the vehicle at a dead run, I saw Randy shove the door open and spring into a heavy sprint while Bob smirked at my contorted position before joining the others. Pushing myself up from the bruising situation, I caught the clamor of the struggle taking place just a few feet from where I remained still.

Surveying the situation through the window, I watched powerlessly as the four boys nearly unanimously tackled and flung the boy by his jeans jacket onto the ground, tearing the jacket off in the process. The boy attempted to scramble onto his feet, but Bob swiped his leg and he flopped back onto the ground in a poof of dust.

"We got him," cheered Trevor. I winced as he delivered the first swift kick to the boy's ribcage, and it was not long before the others joined in on the bonding frenzy.

I clasped the front of my shirt as the palpitations of my heart pumped out of control. Sweat trickled from my brow. But, I could not move. My body was frozen onto the backseat of Bob's car, and my eyes were glued to the barely believable happenings. The boy's grunts and gasps of anguish were lost to the boisterous laughs and urgings of his attackers. They were ruthless, like a pride of lions. They tore at his body in a bloodlust I had only studied about in Biology classes and nature magazines, yet they seemed to act on pure instinct. The louder the greaser wailed, the deeper their heels sunk into his back, his chest, and his legs. The more he willed the strength to crawl deeper into the field, the more fierce their punches came, colliding with his cheekbones and now-swollen lips. It was enough to make my stomach drop in a sudden bout of illness.

Breaking from the immobile trance, I climbed from the mustang and jogged slowly over to the collection of men who bore proud grins of white teeth. The nearer I came, the slower my pace became, for the boy was not moving anymore. Standing motionless alongside Randy, I joined his gaze at the greaser whose face was buried into the dirt. Bob inhaled deeply a cigarette handed to him by Robby before delivering another kick into the body. Something inside of me snapped like a loose canon, and before any logic streamed through my brain, Bob was pinned against the tree with my hands scrunching his nicely woven navy sweater.

"What the hell are you doing! You are going to kill him! Do you hear me! You touch him again and you are going to go down for fucking murder!" I shoved him away, panting. "What the hell is wrong with you!" By the look on his face, Bob was in his own state of delirious shock. Instead of turning on me he just studied my movements with wide eyes and a cool demeanor. Randy moved to grasp my shoulder, but I wrenched away from his touch.

"Calm down, Michael. Just calm down, buddy," he soothed as if I was a frightened child. Our eyes met and I husked, "You could have killed him."

"He ain't dead," interjected Trevor, "Check for yourself."

Breathing unsteadily, I knelt beside the boy and slowly turned him over, relieved to hear a grunt, but ghostly stunned by the familiarity. "Shit! No!"

Bob had broken from his daze, but he was still drunk; his fingers reached for my neck and would have found their target had Randy not tackled his mid-section. "I'm going to kill you, you stupid wop! I am going to kill you!"

"Chill out, man. Just chill! He did not mean anything by it." Randy let out an 'oomph' sound as Bob's elbow embedded itself into his stomach. "Stop, Bob!"

Equally enraged and still lacking common sense, I lunged for Bob. "You did this on purpose! You knew I knew him! You knew!" Trevor caught me mid-leap, and even though I was slightly larger than he, he retained enough might to spin me back onto the ground, muttering names I had been all but used to over the course of my life. Robby had aided Randy in appeasing the seething drunk. Though pacified, Bob's steel eyes planted themselves firmly upon me, the odium radiating from them clearly in the rays of dusk. Robby talked nonchalantly with him while Randy wiped the salty sweat from his brow and knelt beside me.

"You okay?" I nodded. Randy did the same in reply. His eyes alternated from focusing upon me to the body of Johnny. "What were you thinking, kid?"

The question caught me off guard and I blinked, placing my hands to my cheeks. "I know him, well, sort of. He did not do anything to you, why him?" Before he could answer, I continued my tangent. "Oh, I know why. Bob. He knew, you all did. This was the test, right? Am I one of you or one of them? Right? Well, maybe I am neither, you ever think that? Maybe I'm human!"

"Whoa, whoa. Calm down." Randy held up his hands in defense. "I did not know anything. It was not until that kid was on the ground I even realized that it was the punk from today, okay? By then it was too late. Look, you got to learn the rules around here, kid. It ain't like where you came from. If you don't have your pals, you are just as vulnerable as that worthless trash over there." He pointed at Johnny for clear emphasis.

"I already screwed that up," I muttered.

Randy grinned. "With Bob you did. Hell, with Trevor and Robby and probably any other of Bob's buds, but not me. Not yet." His voice lowered to one of seriousness. "Stay away from Bob from now on, Michael. He will not hesitate to make you look exactly like that grease. Got it? At least until I talk him down and you get some smarts knocked into you. You gotta wise up, boy, and fast, or else you don't have a prayer." Having had his say, Randy lifted himself from the ground, patted my shoulder in a friendly manner, and strutted back to where Bob sat, his gaze never having lifted. When I returned the glare, he grinned a white, sinister grin. He swatted at a few flies while Randy whispered some words into his ear. Bob nodded and joined Randy. The four of them stood together, and I sat firmly on the outside of the petty circle, next to Johnny. I looked over only to see that his body had been turned over once more, but his face rested gently on its side. Crimson liquid dripped from a deep gash in his cheek, and his eyes were already purpling and swelling. "I'm sorry, Johnny," I whispered. But, somehow, the guilt did not ease its tension.

"Michael, let's go. Now. We've already been too long. Its by the grace of God we have not been caught." Grace of God? I highly doubted that. No God would look after people like them . . . but, was I one of them, too?

The ride home felt like it lasted twice as long as the drive to Brandson Road. No one spoke. Randy drove after cleverly soliciting the keys from Bob with the simple reasoning of, "Bob, you're drunk. I don't plan on dying."

I nearly bolted from the vehicle as soon as it pulled into my driveway. Randy followed me to the door.

"Look, about what happened –"

"I won't tell anybody."

"What," he looked perplexed.

"You don't want me to tell anybody, mainly my parents, about what you guys did. I won't, but leave me out of whatever else you all do," I sputtered.

Randy clucked his tongue and leaned closer, "You are going to give me a hell of a time getting Bob and them all to not kick your ass the next time you are alone; you know that? I swear, what planet did you live on before you came here? You act like we are some delinquents . . ." His eyes widened and he raised his eyebrows so that they nearly reached the mass of dark curly hair framing his face. "You do think that, don't you? Well, I'll be damned." Much to my surprise, he laughed. "Kid, you got more to learn than any rich boy Tulsa has seen. You neither know how to be the quiet Soc in the corner or the leader of the pack, and that is not a good habit. Don't worry," he playfully slugged my shoulder, "you'll be one of us in no time. You just got to get your thinking straight."

"But, I'm not one of you," I replied with lackluster. "And I don't want to be. I'm sorry, Randy."

Still unfazed, Randy forced a smile, patted my shoulder again, and assured, "Sure you will. Look, I'll see you tomorrow at school, savvy? We'll do something after, you know, get your feet wet slowly, okay?"

He jogged away before I could answer him, right when Bob blared the car horn. Randy started the engine and backed from the driveway, but not before Bob shouted, "Wop," for his final kicks of the evening. I watched the mustang drift out of sight before closing the door, heaving a sigh of relief that I was finally in the comforts of my own home.

As I moved towards the stairs, Nana appeared, drying a dish.

"Did you have fun," she spoke while smiling.

"Of course."

She walked closer, but stopped a few feet from me, worried. "Why is there blood on your jacket?"

I jutted my head to look at the arm of my jacket, stained a dull red. I mentally cursed, racking my memory for how blood could have appeared on my clothes. Concluding it must have been from either turning Johnny around or from landing in a tiny puddle of his blood on the field, I grinned at Nana. "Football. Robby got a bloody nose after colliding with me."

She never bought it, not for an instant, but she would never accuse me of lying. "I'll wash it tomorrow. You should shower and go to bed. You look tired."

I rushed up the stairs, not wanting to be delayed any longer by anyone. Never had a shower and bed sounded so wonderful and soothing, but I knew I would not sleep. I knew as my head throbbed with stress while the warm water cleansed my body, as my heart beat quicker than usual as I placed the stained clothes in the laundry basket, and as my brow perspired even as I lay beneath the beating fan, that sleep would elude me.

I was straddling the fine line of a war zone, and at the moment, I was both sides' enemy, all in one solitary day, and I would have to choose a side soon, so very soon.

At some point in the early morning hours, my body found rest in a deep and dreamless sleep.


	6. Blurred Advice and Ultimatums

Author's Note:

Special thanks to Hahukum Konn, TwilightofFate, Rewrittenword9876, Bambola, Gabbu, Irresistibly desired, and Scarlett7. Thank you for reviewing!

**Chapter Six: Blurred Advice and Ultimatums **

The obnoxious clanging of the third period bell deepened the intense throbbing of my head. Two classes into the school day, and my body had yet to adjust. Instead, my head pounded in protest of a fitful night's sleep, and the rest of my limbs followed suit in some coup against the will of my mind. As much as I desired to take detailed notes about the initial exploration and early civilizations, my body maintained a lax state, my arms feeling like Jell-O and legs like lead.

The first two periods passed in an unspoken tension. Randy had passed my desk without a word, look, or even, a glance. He simply shifted through the maze of wood and metal desks of Mr. Thurmond's classroom, breathing charming 'hellos' to girls with painted faces while patting the shoulder of fellow Socials. Peeking over my shoulder at him, he did everything but leave the room to avoid my gaze. He looked at the ceiling, the desks, the chalk board, hell, even at the least attractive girl in the room. He nearly sighed with relief when Mr. Thurmond entered the room, exclaiming the vast expanse of material needed to be covered within the hour. The hour went by as quickly as time does when one wills it to speed faster; it lasted for hours.

As I gathered the books into my backpack, I watched as Randy rushed by my desk, heading out the door. Scooping the bag onto my shoulder, I dashed after him, accidentally shoving into Marcia, the dainty brunette. She smiled gently and rubbed her shoulder while I shouted, "Sorry!" over my shoulder to which she grinned broader and nodded her head in acknowledgement.

It was a little past the door that I was able to grasp the sleeve of Randy's jacket.

"Randy . . ." I rasped.

He sharply turned, darting his eyes around the hall, most likely for any evidence Bob or Trevor. It was more than obvious that for the time being I was not a popular member of their elite club of self-proclaimed idols. "Randy," I stuttered, again.

Without speaking, he led me down another hall towards his next class, but opposite mine. "What's going on?"

He brushed his hair nervously. "What's –"

"Look, I don't know, yet. Just, don't do anything stupid until lunch, alright? Be smart. Don't touch anyone, don't glare, just be cool." The words were jumbled together as he spoke hastily and in a single breath. "What," I licked my lips, "what are they going to do, Randy? Isn't this overreacting a bit? What's going on, man?"

Randy moved to respond, but looking far ahead, his eyes widened and he shoved past me, whispering into my ear, "We'll talk later."

Following his beeline, I watched as he engulfed the dark haired doll into his arms as she bore a wide and straight smile. He kissed her lightly and she blushed, smoothing her hair, giggling as the flaming redhead grasped her arm and whispered a sly joke into her ear. Not far behind Cherry, as I found they called her due to that waterfall of locks, was her boyfriend: the infamous Robert Sheldon. He protectively gripped her waist while planting a small peck on her cheek. Both couples beamed while conversing, and it was not until the second period bell screeched that I broke from my curious gaze and rushed to Ms. England's Biology class.

When I entered my third period class, both Bob and Randy were already sitting contently in their seats, chuckling. Immediately after I entered, Bob and my eyes met in an instant confrontation. Randy's advice of not doing anything stupid stuck firmly in my mind, and I intended to follow it. I waltzed past them, but not before Bob snorted with a smug expression. The teacher had yet to enter the room, and to my dismay, I discovered myself in the untimely position of being alone in a room composed mainly of Socs with only a handful of greasers and even less middle-class kids, and sitting diagonally from Bob Sheldon.

In the most innocent of tones, Bob turned to a blonde guy and nonchalantly began a conversation.

"Hey, Jack, did you hear about our latest grab?" Bob smirked and led Jack's eyes to me. I squirmed. "No, tell me about it," Jack pled in an overly interested voice.

Needing no more urging, Bob continued, "Well, we got lucky to get that skinny little rat they call Cade. You know the one? The kid with black hair, always comes to school with a limp or shiner, never speaks a word? Dallas's pet?" Jack nodded. "Stupid grease-ball was walking alone, so Randy, Trev, Rob, the wop, and I go after him. We nab him good, and beat him to a pulp –"

"And you want to know what that dumb shit did," whelped Trevor, sticking his skinny neck into the group, face red with freckles. "He told us to stop!"

Pushing his head away with an open palm, Bob started, "Who's telling the story? Anyways, that's exactly what our very own rich boy did! Told us to stop! I swear, he has feelings for the poor widdle greasers!" The group broke into a mixture of laughter like a band of hyenas, cackling at a joke only they found to be humorous.

I doodled spirals upon the paper, only sparing momentary glares at them. Much to my surprise and utter dismay, Randy was in tears of laughter as well, and as the moment passed, he hiccupped loudly, only to break into a rambunctious fit again. "Some Soc," I overheard him mutter. "Some Soc . . ."

Those words played over and over in my thoughts, like a broken record player. I tried to convince myself that he had not meant the words, but the evidence of glistening cheeks and the spontaneous jumps of his body bore all evidence of true emotion. When he turned to look at me as the teacher entered the room, I freely sported the stare of odium I had bottled up inside. He raised his eyebrows and did a rapid double-take before returning his attention to the teacher, his body tense.

I settled into the seat, smug. Unfortunately, the confidence dwindled as the bell confirmed the completion of the class. Randy hurriedly husked, "Hey, Michael – "

But with the loud slam of my textbook, I put him off and bumped my way through the herd of teens attempting to escape clearly the most boring class of the day.

By the time I reached my locker, I had lost all clear sight of Randy. Scattered students switched their books then rushed to their next class. I fiddled with the combination, messing up twice, before finally hearing the successful click of the lock. I grasped the English Composition book and moved to exchange my early morning books, but the clamor of curses caught my attention. I pushed the locker shut and absent-mindedly locked it before heading for the source of the noise. Turning the corner aisle, the sight of Two-bit holding a Soc against the stair wall graced my eyes. The brunette's face was red with fury, but nothing compared to Two-Bit's own tomato cheeks and sweaty sideburns. The rusty-haired greaser deepened his arm into the boy's neck, threatening in a low voice, "Who did it, damnit? Who the hell did it!"

The boy rasped, "I don't know what you are talking about . . . let me go!"

"Fuck you," Two-Bit shouted as his free hand gripped his switchblade. "Who did it? You tell me or I will cut ya good? I ain't got nothing to lose since your fancy statistics say Imma be in jail anyways."

He held the knife dangerously near the jugular of the brunette's neck, and within a second's timing, the boy's face altered from scarlet to a pallid white at the daring ultimatum. Stuttering, he spoke nearly illiterately, "I don't know! I swear, I don't know who did it!"

Two-bit pushed the knife nearer, but at the sign the boy was not going to confess, he swiftly withdrew it and let the boy slide to the ground. "Get out of here you good for nothing hoity toity Soc! Scram!" The boy nearly collided into me as he sprinted down the hallway.

Two-Bit's attention landed on me, and I looked around as other's did as well. He grinned. "Five bucks says he ran straight to the King of Socials himself. Ten bucks says a group of them try to rumble it out at lunch with me . . . you a bettin' man Mike?"

The bell rang loudly overhead. Still grinning, he lit a cigarette and informed me, "You're late."

Nodding, I darted for my English class, barely making it in time. I immediately spotted a free chair in front of Ponyboy in the far back, along with a free seat in the upper left next to Trevor, Bob, Randy, and others I recognized but had yet to memorize their name.

Bob sneered at me, as did the others. Randy looked torn between the two; he settled for a lopsided smile.

There are moments when the body and the mind, or is it the body and the heart, do two completely opposite actions. As with my own case, it was like being in a wind tunnel, or staring at one of those optical spiral illusions. The vision spins around and around, lacking control. I walked towards Randy, who smiled triumphantly. Bob patted the seat in front of him temptingly, yet, their sly grins became flat as I passed by the desk, past Bob, past Trevor and Randy, and straight to the back seat. My heart palpitated uncontrollably as I plopped into the chair, sparing a look at the shocked and seething faces of the guys I was a day ago friends with. Randy had placed his head into his hand, shaking it back and forth in dismay.I turned to Ponyboy, whose green eyes were wide. He held a book loosely in his hands, but my appearance startled him from what appeared to be an intriguing tale. He looked between the empty chair in front of Bob and back to me.

"What are you doing," Pony asked in complete alarm as I inwardly grimaced, but with some pride.

"Something stupid," I sighed in reply. "Something very stupid . . . how's Johnny?"

Pony's face contorted in suspicion. "Not here."

"But is he okay?"

He lowered his book and looked nervously at the Socs. "He'll live. How'd you know about him?"

The teacher entered and the rustling of students scrambling to get to their seats filled the room. "Oh, just heard about it. People talk. They said he was pretty badly hurt, though."

"Yeah, but mostly scared." Pony closed the book in his hands opened up the textbook as the teacher called out page numbers. Turning around, I did the same, taking a deep breath while praying the class would go by slowly . . . it didn't.

-o-

I made my way down the crowded halls minutes after the lunch bell sounded, trying to avoid Bob, Randy, and their posse. Pony and I shared no more words even after the period ended. I had just gathered my books only to see his auburn hair pass through the doorway. I did not blame him for wanting to leave so suddenly; I took the long path around the room to avoid Bob and Randy, exiting the back door and into the ocean of faces.

Though it was lunch, many teenagers still clogged the halls. Socs clad in striped shirts and khaki pants tossed sport objects from one person to the other while gorgeous ladies newly dressed in cheerleader outfits emerged from the restroom. Some of the jocks hooted at them, causing some to blush, but not Cherry. She bestowed an acknowledging smile and a brisk nod to the cat calls, yet when a long-haired blonde greaser whistled low as he passed her by, she wrinkled her nose and held her mouth in a shocked and insulted manner.

She spotted me and waved as she walked over. "Hey Michael," she cooed.

"Hey, Cherry. How have you been?"

Her face brightly lit up. "Very well! The cheer team is going to get new uniforms this year. Mrs. Mirol offered me the job of designing them, and . . . well, I doubt you want to hear much about cheerleading." She blushed and I could not withhold a smile from her. She returned it without pretense. "How do you like it here," she questioned hopefully.

Smile withering, I murmured, "It's okay I suppose, so far." That was a lie, a falsity in and of itself.

"Oh, things will get better. Sure, we have a good number of, well, let's just say, undesirables, in the school, but for the most part, the people here are pretty kind. You and Bob seem to be hitting it off well enough."

I must have become accustomed to the knotting of my stomach, for though it clenched at his name, no sick or dizzy symptoms overcame my perception. "Yeah, Cherry, everything is going just – "

A tight and firm hand planted itself upon my shoulder, causing me to jump and jerk away, but the hand held me in place. Ornate rings decorated the hand, reminding me of the fairy tale kings in fictional books who cover their fingers in jewels, forcing the lower subjects to kiss them as a sign of allegiance and devotion. Turning ever so slowly, I came nose to nose with Bob. He smirked nonchalantly at Cherry and I, but his eyes told a much different emotion. Never had I wished to evaporate into thin air as much as I did at that single moment.

"Hey Cherry," he spoke, "Why don't you let us steal our new pal away from you for a while, okay babe?"

I attempted to communicate to her with my eyes to tell Bob to shove off, and not for her to leave me alone with them. Any hope dashed to a billion fragmented pieces as Cherry obliviously kissed him on his cheek before walking down the hall, her hips swaying from one side to the other in a confident and alluring motion.

Bob's hand gripped the back of my shirt and he began to drag me down the hall, making me unpleasantly aware of our size difference. Muttered curses and threats did not faze him in the least, nor Randy, Trevor, or another blonde. "What are you doing," I snarled when he finally released his grip, leaving us in a vacant hallway in the back of the building. "What do you want?"

Bob chuckled airily, smirked at Randy, and then slammed by back into the wall. I hissed with pain and discomfort, still holding his stare. "What the fuck did you think you were doing? Who the hell do you think you are?"

"Easy, Bob," came Randy's smooth voice. "Just take it easy on him. He didn't know what he was doing . . ."

"Like hell he did," yapped Trevor. "He knew what he was doing just like he knew what he was doing yesterday! C'mon, Bob, just hit the wop!"

"No," Randy interrupted.

"That's actually not a bad idea . . ."

Bob's knee collided with my stomach before I had time to react or defend myself. The blow knocked me to my knees, leaving me gasping for oxygen while grasping my stomach. Sputtering, Bob held me back up against the wall. "That's a warning for you. The first part of your training, you got that?"

"What training," I wheezed.

Bob scoffed, "You're one us, whether you want to be or not, and it's about time you acted like it. No more sitting with those low-lives, or helping them, or even feeling sorry for them with their useless parents! Got it!"

It was my turn to laugh. "And you are going to make me do this how? You can't make me do anything, Bob!'

Lowering his height so that he was eye to eye with me, he snickered softly before hushing, "But I can. Your dad works for mine, or did you forget that little piece of information?" My stomach dropped and I moaned.

"Here's your ultimatum, Mikey-boy. You can either come with us, wise-up, and start acting with some dignity, or," he held up his hand, "you can be with your little greasy friends. Your dad won't have a job much longer once I confess all of the horrible stunts you have pulled with the worse hoods in town. You'd be living right next to Curtis and Cade. How does that sound?"

"Just go along with him," urged Randy. "Be smart for once today, kid!"

I gave in, lowered my head, and with shame submitted to their demand.

"It sounds like I don't have much of a choice."

"Good," Bob said as he deridingly smacked my cheek. He moved to walk away, but in a last minute decision, his fist collided with the corner of my left eye, casting me to the tiled floor.

"Bob!"

"Way to go!"

"You sure showed that candyass who's boss!"

The voices mixed together. The only discernable one came as Bob hissed, "That's so you don't forget."

Their footsteps died into the distance, save for Randy, who knelt beside me and helped me to sit up. The flow of blood was easily sensed as it trickled down my cheek. Randy held a handkerchief to it and pulled away, revealing to me the blob of crimson fluid. My head spun wildly. Reclining beside me, Randy monotonously spoke.

"Smartest thing you've done since you've been here."

Our faces met and both of us burst into a fit of giggles, which only cramped my bruised stomach more. "Ow," I breathed between coughs. "He hit you good, there," said Randy.

"Bob sure has a hard fist."

A tense silence sunk among us. Randy fiddled with his fingers before speaking again.

"Look, just go along with what Bob says. I'll try to make sure he's not hard on you, but you have to do your part too. I only have so much control over the guy. Just, give him a chance. When you are on his good side, trust me, life is a lot better, and," he laughed, "less painful."

"I can't jump people, Randy. It's not in me," I sighed.

"Yeah, I figured." He paused. "You let me worry about that, though. Just, stay away from the greasers until Bob stops imagining your death."

Randy hopped up and offered his hand out, which I gladly accepted. "How long do you think that will be," I inquired.

Randy shrugged. "I have no idea. Just let me talk to him later on when he has cooled off. Hey," his voice rose in tone, "are you going to the Dinner Social this weekend?"

"That's the one with all our fathers, right?"

"Yeah. They are usually boring as hell and filled with middle-aged and old men, but we always come up with something to do. Are you coming?"

"Yeah, dad did not give me a choice," I muttered.

Randy nodded in reply as we walked down the isle, the school bell ringing. Students rushed in from outside and the noise of lockers opening and shutting resounded in the halls once more. Randy turned to enter his next class, but paused as I called his name.

"Thanks, Randy. You dig okay."

He smiled and waved before disappearing behind the door. Deeply sighing, I adjusted my backpack and continued past the rows of lockers, past the greaser boys leaning against the walls with greaser girls smacking gum and cackling underneath them, past the cheerleaders, past the socialites, and even past the middle-class girls dressed in blue and yellow hues. Oddly enough, without paying attention, and just walking with eyes facing forward, they all looked the same . . .


	7. Black Tie Masquerade

Special Thanks:

Scarlett7: Wow, I must say that your reviews have left me very flattered due to the fact you have grasped exactly what I was aiming for with this story! Not only have you grasped that it is meant to shed light from the Soc's perspective, but you have caught the link between Dallas and Bob. Thank you so much for taking the time to review! I will add more interaction with Johnny and the others in chapter eight according to my outline.

All: I made an outline and it looks like this will be a 25-29 chapter story. College has been chaotic, so give me time. I have been sporadically working on other works as well, preparing them for a massive update. I have also been having weekly night meetings with a team preparing to go to Rwanda to teach at the university. I think I moved the relationship too quickly, but that is something I can go back and fix with time. Also, more of the greasers will appear in the following chapters.

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Black-Tie Masquerade**

The clashing and clanging chimes of silverware echoed in the otherwise silent dining room. Mother, with her hair neatly construed in a sophisticated bun, daintily sliced the meat on her plate, as did Father. He would cough heartily between bites, taking large gulps of wine. Nana and Antonio often had to refill his glass as he took waft after waft between chews. For some unknown reason, food had difficulty passing down his throat, but he had the pride of a lion and stubbornness of a mule in seeking medical advice and aide. After taking a particularly large mouthful of food, he began coughing loudly. His face turned a light shade of red as he held a napkin to his mouth and reached for his glass of wine, sipping it steadily. Mother placed her napkin over the plate as she left her seat and leaned over father, rubbing his back gently.

"Are you okay Mr. Pugolisly," asked Antonio. Nana rushed in with a glass of water and handed it softly to him, beckoning him to take slow gulps with a smooth, "Here." Both Antonio and Nana hovered over Father until his coughs and spasms subsided and he waved them away in an annoyed manner. Mother returned to her seat and continued picking at her meal. Adjusting the collar of his expensive black and white suit, Father cleared his throat with a deep growl before looking to his left.

"So, Michele, how is school going? Well?"

I nodded, and he continued.

"Very good. And who have you made friends with?"

"A few people. Randy Anderson," I bit my tongue. "Yes, who else," urged Father impatiently. When I failed to respond in an adequate amount of time, he briskly inquired, "And what of the other boys? I hear a Bob Sheldon is quite popular. Have you met him yet, Michele?"

The tapping of my foot on the fine wood floors at the mention of Bob's name resounded lightly in the spacious room of towering walls and expensive foreign portraits of exotic flowers and foreign landscapes of drooping trees and gushing streams and waterfalls, along with a particularly hideous portrait of a pristine woman with raven hair, awkward eyes, a much too long and wide nose who was unflatteringly clad in every piece of jewelry she appeared to own. But, the dull painting was rumored to be worth a large sum of money, and thus, became a piece often bragged about at parties. I despised the woman and the air of superiority she personified.

"Michele!"

My body leaped form its place on the cushioned chair carved of mahogany. "Hmm," I responded before widening my eyes in realization. "Oh, yes, I've met Bob. He and Randy are best friends. I've also met Trevor Johnston and Robby Parker, and a boy named Jack, but I have not learned of his last name. Not yet at least . . ."

For a few seconds, his face was unreadable and stoic. No expression could be read in his stare, but when took a quick bite of meat, he grinned broadly.

"Good! Then you will be glad to know that they will also be at the Social this weekend!" He took another gulp of wine. Whatever salt the meat possessed dulled to a bland mixture, and I shoved the dish away, placing the napkin over the plate.

"May I be excused," I beckoned.

Mother's face contorted in puzzlement, but she smiled softly and nodded. I looked towards Father, who once more was taking a large gulp of wine. His raised his hand in approval, and before I ever fully left the table he began what seemed to be the commencement of a thorough political discussion with traces of business ventures and large sums of value. Nana removed the barely eaten dish, her lips perched with the slightest trace of worriment. I caught her eyes before she faded behind the swinging door and into the kitchen.

-o-

The gentle thudding of the pencil eraser upon the desk kept time with the ticking clock mounted sturdily next to a copy of Homer's Odyssey, among other books littering the book shelves that wrapped around my room. They were a prized treasure, where a world of tranquility and escape existed in each title's unique offering. Be it the crying song of gulls as a ship approached a long awaited port of an exotic land, a creature of mythic proportion slain by a hero a fraction of the beast's size, or the classic wonderment of human prevail over personal turmoil – _Oliver Twist, Canterbury Tales, The Mayor of Casterbridge, Heart of Darkness, Moby Dick, and David Copperfield _– all gateways to an existence of fantasy and heroism and triumph.

"Antonio – "

The pencil clanged loudly as my head snapped upwards at the sudden alarmed female scream resounding from below.

"Dear God! Catch it!"

My feet barely touched the stairs, the screeches increasing in tone with each step. What met my eyes was an amusing display. Nana stood upon a wooden stool, dish rag in hand. Antonio held a broom in a batter's position. Both stared intently at the floor.

"What's going on," I laughed.

"God damn mouse is what," muttered Antonio.

"Watch you mouth, Anthony," corrected Nana, tentatively bringing a single foot down onto the tiles. "I think it is gone now." She scooped up the stool and placed it back into the closet. The clock chimed the nine o'clock hour. Father and Mother would have long retired to their rooms or office in the wing furthest from the kitchen. Antonio set the broom aside and slumped into a chair beside me. "We better hope your parents don't see that mouse. There will be hell to pay, for us and the man who sold them this house with the guarantee it was vermin free."

"It's just a mouse, what can it do?"

"Enough to hurt us," he snapped. "Just imagine your mother seeing that thing, or even your father. I can see it now. He'll be sipping his afternoon coffee at his desk, he'll look down, and there on his contracts is your little mouse, harmless, but nonetheless an imperfection in his delicate and shiny new house. My word," he faked a gasp, "what would the neighbors say if they saw it? Take a guess who will be on the end of that pointed finger . . . US!" He sulked, sipping a glass of water. As Nana left the room, he pushed the glass onto the table, causing a portion of the liquid to topple over the edge and onto the wood. He leaned forward.

"So, why did they call you Michael?"

I shrugged. "Why does it matter to you what they call me?"

"You don't think your parents will find it a little odd during your pristine social dinner?"

"There's ways to avoid it – "

"Not really."

Unknown to him, the knot in my stomach tightened like a nest of coiling snakes. As much as I fought to disprove his theory, there was no logical escape from it. "It's just a name," I concluded, shoving away from the seat and towards the stairs, barely hearing the soft echo of Antonio's deep baritone voice.

"Then why are you so afraid of it?"

-o-

The social came with a warm welcome. Bob spent the remainder of the days with subtle torments and insults while Randy held my tongue with his steady glare.

The suit of black shined in the Autumn sunlight, nearly glinting in an array of material expense and grandeur. For all its worth, I had hoped for the least bit of comfort, but it was in vain. The collar itched and choked while the suit constricted free movement.. Mother and Father bustled about the house the entire day, Mother fretting over attire while Father gathered any business transactions he may need. The evening did not dawn soon enough, as the sun sunk low on the horizon and coated the sky in a cotton candy decoration. The car bumped lightly down the road. I glanced up. Mother fixed her hair in the mirror, caught my eyes, and smiled.

"The other boys will be there," she turned in her seat. "Don't fret about being dulled by all this adult conversation. As soon as you greet Mr. Sheldon you are free to have fun – "

"Behave," growled Father, adjusting his collar as his large neck hung over it. I smirked.

The car rolled to a stop behind a long line of expensive vehicles, all leading up to a massive structure that I dared to risk saying, belittled my own home. Roman pillars held the upper balcony that wrapped around the entirety of the house, and above the French doors was a massive window that hosted the chandelier within the foyer. The mansion was coated the cleanest of white and was framed by flora and trimmed trees. Father quickly parked and ushered us up the stairs and through the already open and welcoming doors. It was ever so much like a daze of lights and sounds and smells. As soon as my dress shoes clicked upon the tiles, my nose tingled with the scent of cooking beef, pastries and desserts, and expensive perfume and cologne. The lights glinted off of the marble in a sporadic array that matched the clanging of glasses and thunder of voices in active conversation.

I was lead through multiple halls and finally into the main room that had been cleared to reveal an almost ballroom atmosphere. It was here that Randy's bushy hair caught my attention. He was greeting multiple older gents, many with groomed beards and slightly balding heads. He nodded in acknowledgment while Mother grasped my arm and led me towards a group of men, one baring the glaring resemblance of Bob. Father was already holding a glass of wine and congenially conversing with him, but upon our presence, all eyes turned towards us as Father introduced us. I unknowingly flinched at my name, but noting the clear absence of Bob and Randy, and the clear unbalanced state of Mr. Sheldon, I relaxed.

The room buzzed of the guffaws of half-drunken men and the giggles of women sharing in the taste of the pastries. I was tempted to help myself to one when Randy lightly tapped me on the shoulder and motioned with his head for me to follow. He casually made his way from the room, down several halls, and to the very back of the house, where he opened up the glass door and led me to the backyard. It too, was highly furnished, complete with a grand oval swimming pool. Sitting there was Bob, Trevor, and another I had yet to meet who was clad in a letterman's jacket.

Bob sat calmly on the edge of a reclining chair, the cigarette in his mouth glowing brightly against the raven background of bushes. Glancing at me, he breathed the grey smoke from his

thin lips and nostrils and passed it to the boy I did not know, who then reached forward and handed it to Randy. Randy took a drag and immediately handed it to me. Trevor's eyes narrowed as he studied my actions. I placed the cigarette to my lips and inhaled deeply. The heavy thudding of my heart subsided and I breathed deeply. Handing the cigarette to Bob once more, I watched as he smirked.

"Almost expected you to start coughing." He flicked the cigarette onto the ground and grinded it with his foot. "When did you start smoking?"

"Year or so ago. So, what do you guys do at these things? Sit and smoke –"

"And drink," howled the skinny no-name brunette, shoving a bottle of beer towards me. The others laughed as Randy took a large swig of the liquid. "As you can see, Art here is three sheets to the wind, already." The slightly wavering group rose to their feet and Bob motioned with his hand for me to follow while Randy handed me a flask that had been tucked securely in his coat.

We exited at the back gate and wandered, what seemed to me, to be aimlessly down the street. Bob slowed his pace and walked alongside me, Randy carefully eying him. "I'm not going to kill him for Christ's sake," he barked. "And how do we all know that," Randy asked, an eyebrow arched.

Bob smirked and motioned at Art, who was singing bits and parts of different Beatle's songs all at once while leaning heavily on Trevor, who grimaced and attempted to push him away. "For one, I would not have brought along the yapping mut over there, and two, we'd be on the other side o' town." I grinned at his remarks. Bob glanced at the flask in my hand. "Drink it already, will you!"

Hesitantly, I twisted the lid and opened the flask. The liquid stung my chapped lips, and this time I did cough as it ran down my throat. The boys laughed gaily and I felt myself relax ever so slightly. Randy slung an arm about my shoulders and grabbed the flask once more.

"Where are we going," I questioned.

"Party," breathed Bob, lighting another cigarette.

"Where at?"

Randy interjected. "Stop asking questions and just chill."

-o-

The house where the party was held was located in a middle-class neighborhood. The scent of smoke and beer spewed from the house and the sound of rock n' roll music blared from any open window and door. Several expensive cars crowded the streets and stumbling bodies hooted and hollered from random directions.

Bob and Randy entered the house as if they owned the place and were greeted with slick smiles and pats on the back. Sensing my hesitation, Randy grasped the collar of my shirt and smirked. "Loosen up, kid. Here," he handed me the flask, "help yourself."

I situated myself against one of the wallpapered walls beside the stairs and took another drink from the flask. All around me were a mixture of high and middle class kids, some clad in suits while others were in much more comfortable garb. On the other side of the room, my eyes caught sight of a pretty, petite girl dressed in yellow. Her eyes caught mine, and she smiled warmly as she made her way over.

"You're new here, aren't you," she asked, playing with her honey colored locks. My palms began to sweat, and I took another swig.

"Yeah, moved in a little over a week ago."

"How do you like Tulsa so far, I mean, greasers aside of course?" She frowned at the word "greaser," but casually resumed a radiant smile. I shrugged. "It's okay so far. Different from where I'm from, but okay." She beamed. Before she could get another word out, Randy shouted my name from another room, causing me to jump slightly. The girl giggled as I excused myself and headed into the kitchen.

"My name's Miranda by the way," she called after me. "I'm Michael," I hollered back, grinning.

Randy and Bob lazily lounged against the kitchen counter as I entered the room. Beside them was a massive and much older looking man sporting a letterman's jacket similar to the one Art wore. His sandy blonde hair was combed loosely to the side and his eyes held a thunderstorm within them, just begging to be set free. "This him," the nearly-sober man husked. Bob nodded.

"This is Paul," Randy explained.

"You look a little old for high school," I murmured. He glared for a moment before bursting into a grizzly bear laugh. "Good thing, cause I'm not in high school anymore."

"Paul here is in college. Studying to be a lawyer. Big football player, too. But, his biggest rep outside of football is the clubbing he gave to the greasy apes across town." My eyes widened. "That true," I questioned.

Paul nodded and smirked. "I use to rumble with the Shepherd gang. You ever wonder where Tim got that scar?"

"Whose Tim?" He looked at me as if another head had started to appear from my neck. "Kid don't know about Tim Shepherd, yet? How about Dally?"

"I've heard of him," I shouted enthusiastically, the liquid from the flask clearly taking over my senses. "Good for you," mumbled Bob.

"He's only been here a week or so, Paul. We're still teaching him the ropes –"

"When he's not sympathizing with the scum of the earth," growled Bob, glaring at me. My eyes narrowed in return. Paul smirked again. "Don't like each other very much, do they?" Randy shook his head. "What's this about sympathizing, kid," he beckoned, slinging a giant arm around my shoulders and steering me out the backdoor and into the well kempt yard complete with a decent sized swimming pool. Despite the cool weather, girls were clad in their bathing suits and boys tossed a volleyball from one end to the other.

"It's nothing," I assured him. "Nothing my ass," Bob shouted, stumbling after us. He tripped on a garden gnome and tumbled in a heap of curses. I found myself laughing despite the look of malice he directed at me. "You should have seen the lil wop try to defend the twiggy grease the other day. I swear he was going to cry."

"I was not! You were going to kill him! What would you know, you were too drunk to even drive home!" Paul grasped Bob's shoulders and veered him towards the house. "Go lie down before you fall in the pool you stupid drunk," he mock-ordered. Trevor laughed as he passed by us, ducking a rock thrown from Bob. Nonetheless, Bob stumbled back into the house.

Paul turned towards me and folded his arms, making me feel quite small. "They didn't have greasers where you're from? I damn near thought every town had some form of greaser."

"Nah. I mean, we had the poor kids, but nothing like a grease or a Soc. The rich kids just generally stuck with the rick kids and the poor, the poor kids. No jumping anyone or anything," I explained. He nodded.

"Well, it's not like that here. You have to shape up. You got to know how to fight, who your pals are, and what you are. You especially don't want to screw up your social rank around he. I've seen guys who had the world in dollars be pummeled like lowlife greases for not taking a stance. Not all, but you stick out like a sore thumb."

"Thanks," I spat. "Hey," he defended, "I got nothing against kids with a little color in them, but I know from experience that you do not want to be Bob's enemy and be an Italian right along with it. Bob's clear-cut in his likes and dislikes, and so far you are zero for two."

I tapped the flask and brought it to my lips. "Look, just go along with it. Make it easier on yourself. They deserve it –"

"Why?"

Paul frowned and ran his heavy hand through his hair, his eyes clouding over with undistinguishable emotions. "Look, there are a lot of reasons why things are what they are. It's not just that they are poor, I mean, I pity some of them. One of my buddies from football lived down there with his parents and younger brothers. It's just that most are just trash that doesn't even try to make their lives worth anything more than to consume what we wealthy men put into the economy. Their lives are not worth more than the beer they drink and the Camels they bum off of each other. Their girls are whores and their boys grow up to be alcoholic abusers."

"It's a cycle," I whispered, remembering Randy's words.

"Exactly," exclaimed Paul. "Just think of it this way, you care about them more than they care about you. Tell you what, go walk onto their turf. See what they do to you. I bet you that you would be lucky to be alive. Don't believe me, try it."

A chilled breeze rustled the overhanging tree branches. Paul's eyes matched the clouding night sky. I watched as girls shuddered in the bathing suits, scooting closer to their boyfriends. I pulled at the collar of my shirt, lips flat in contemplation. He was right, to an extent, I reasoned.

A loud whistle interrupted my thoughts, and I strained my neck to see Randy walking towards the street, guiding Bob. Trevor and Art followed behind them. "Mikey, let's go!"

"Don't want Mommy and Daddy to be worried," squealed Trevor. I rolled me eyes and trudged after them, waving absent mindedly behind me. My head had begun to pound once more, and it felt as if the drumming of the music would not leave my brain even as the house slowly began to fade behind street corners. I watched as Art and Bob took turns emptying their stomachs while Randy and Trevor attempted to get them to go in the right direction and to stay out of the streets. I vaguely wondered why we had not taken a car, and my thoughts strayed to the yellow girl with rosy lips and delicate laugh, and then to Paul's cleverly construed words of wisdom. Anxiety clenched my heart, but for once I did not feel like dealing with a right and wrong, black and white issue. I took a long sip of the liquid, completely content in my semi-drunk haze of grey.

* * *

Author's Note: Please review! 


	8. Tug o' War

Author's Note: Quick update! I hope you like this chapter. As promised, more of the greasers. Please, please, review!

This chapter is dedicated to the** one** person who did review! Thanks, **These Trick Questions**!

* * *

**Bleeding Autumn Chapter 8: Tug o' War**

The day was colder than usual, and I immediately regretted not bringing a jacket. The icy winds twisted the tree branches into horrible creatures of shadow on the sidewalk. People hurried from the buildings to their cars, many carrying steaming cups of coffee or hot chocolate. It seemed autumn was finally setting in. The leaves that were not yet brown or gold were slowly losing their vibrant green hues, complying with the laws of nature.

My chin rested against my fist as I waited for the teacher to enter the classroom of English Literature and Composition. Mr. Syme, though an enthusiastic teacher, had a habit of always being late to classes, usually due to stopping for donuts and coffee along the way. My eyes raised as a familiar face walked through the door, his green eyes searching the classroom for a seat. I grimaced as I realized that the only empty one was in front of me. He didn't seem pleased either.

As he set his backpack on the floor, I attempted to avoid eye contact and busied myself studying the chart of famous writing periods in history. _Puritan . . . Victorian . . . Romantic . . . _

"Hey," he barely whispered.

My face flushed and I could feel sweat droplets forming at the roots of my scalp. I glanced around the room, noting that few Socs were in the class and that it was mostly made up of middle class kids. "Hey," I hushed.

His eyes stared at his feet, lips in a straight line as if in some form of deep thought.

"How's Johnny been? I don't see him in school much," I blurted.

He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he looked me square in the face, green eyes blazing. "Not so hot. Can't walk down street without looking over his shoulder every minute."

"Do ya know who did it, I mean, have you found out?" I cracked my knuckles in a nervous habit.

"A bunch of you damn Socs," he snipped. My blood began to boil for a reason I could not explain. Who was he to judge the lot of us? "Some guy with rings. He cut up his face pretty badly. He didn't need this. All he was doing was looking for a football –"

"Maybe he should have spent that time trying to find a job," I hissed, "instead of lollygagging around like some street trash." My eyes widened at the words that came so naturally out of my mouth.

Ponyboy's eyes narrowed and he countered my statement by saying in the most monotonous of tones, "Maybe you all should get a life that does not revolve around us street trash. We get really tired of being the center of your lives." He turned his back to me and rummaged through his backpack as the teacher hurried into the classroom, explaining why he was late and about the immense amount of work we were supposed to do.

"I'm sorry. Tell him that," I hushed. He made no movement to signal he heard.

**-o-**

The next couple of weeks passed in an empty daze of boorish and conventional teachers droning on and on about pointless facts that had little influence on any normal person's existence. My days were scheduled – always the same. Mundane. Go to school, pal around with Randy and the others, go home, and attempt to convince Nana and my parents that I was somehow content and happy to live such a lifestyle. The unsettling part was that in some manner, I enjoyed the company of Randy. Bob, although still in the habit of shouting racial slurs and pathetic nicknames, had managed to withhold his grudge and included me in their social gathering as if I had been there years before. It was engaging and enthralling. The sense of pride was my nicotine, and the air of superiority my vodka.

The sly jesting and tormenting of Antonio had thankfully subsided once he developed the flu and was made to stay in bed. I could come and go with little more than a smile and nod from Nana.

"Michele, take this bowl of soup up to Anthony, won't you dear," pleaded Nana in such a soft and charming voice that despite wincing at the thought of visiting Antonio, I agreed with as much of a smile as I could muster.

"That's a good boy." She grinned a devilish grin.

My shoes tapped on the hard floors as I steered through the halls to the very last room on the right. I rapped on the door, waiting for a reply. None came. I rapped again in a _tap-tap-tap --- tap-tap_. "Antonio?"

A muffled voice moaned from within. "Go away."

I opened up the door, careful not to spill the soup on the platter, but nearly failed as a large pillow barely missed my head. I glared at the unusually pale boy on the bed. "I said to go away!"

"Sorry," I smirked, "can't. Nana's orders. You gotta eat this soup."

He moaned again and turned his back towards me. "For acting like such a jerk you sure are a baby when it comes to being sick," I taunted. He rolled over, facing me, but his narrowed eyes suddenly widened as he clenched his stomach tightly. Rushing to his side, he quickly shoved me away. "I'm fine. Stomach just cramps up now and then."

"No flu I've had made my stomach hurt that bad. You should see a doctor," I stated matter-of-factly. He grimaced again, grabbed the soup, and growled, "I'll eat the damn soup. Just leave. Don't need no doctor." The still small voice in my head argued otherwise, but not particularly enjoying his company, I shrugged and complied, quietly shutting the door behind me.

**-o-**

Mrs. Mical's history class was nearly over as I surveyed the decent sized classroom now flooded with clusters of small groups busily hunching over a worksheet and flipping through the much too large textbook. Of course, I was immediately welcomed into one of the two Soc groups. I could barely focus on the assignment. The letters mixed into a gigantic heap of confusion. France, England, something about a war . . . what did it matter? I glanced at the clock, hoping that if I focused on it hard enough it would move at a faster pace than it had been throughout the day. Trevor snapped his fingers in front of my face.

"What," I groaned, smacking his hand away. He smirked good-naturedly and shrugged. "You looked like you were a billion miles away. Had to bring ya back down, ya dig?"

"Yeah, yeah," I mumbled, grinning. Over the weeks, Trevor, although sometimes much too active with the attention span of a goldfish, turned out to be a decent enough cat. He, like me, enjoyed a rare pastime - the thrill of feet pounding upon the ground, the sun blaring down on our faces, legs aching and burning like a wild forest fire, and heart thudding twice the speed of our pace. While I attested that the true joy of running involved a ball, he actively talked at length about track meets and the prestige of winning championships.

"Man, this class is a drag," he sighed, stretching his arms above his head. "Nothing but a bunch of lip flappin'."

"Yep," I agreed. "So," I drawled, "what's this about a party?" Trevor temporarily eyed a girl across the room before reverting his attention back to my question.

"Yeah, down by the river. All of us go there, get blitzed, bring the gals along. It's a hell of a time!"

The bell resounded above in a piercing screech akin to nails on a chalkboard. Everyone mechanically gathered their belongings and made a mad dash for the door in an unspoken race. Trevor and I chatted mindlessly about an upcoming track meet.

"You really should think about joining the team. We could use you, what distance do you do best at?"

I paused, perplexed. "The long ones?"

Trevor motioned to respond when a lean kid with large curly hair and square features roughly shoved into me, sending my back into the sharp handle of a locker. The pain jolted my shoulders and I clenched my teeth.

"Watch where you're fucking going, ya rich trash." His words dripped acidly. My eyes jutted open and my cheeks heated with rage.

"You're the ones that need to watch it, filthy skuzz." Our faces were close together. His breath reeked of alcohol and the lack of nightly brushing. His grey eyes sized me up, and he smirked. Several teeth were chipped into fangs and sharp edges. "Ya really think yous stand a chance," he cooed. At my lack of backing down, he flicked out a lighter and cigarette. Lighting the tip, he took a long drag of it. A small crowd had gathered, and to my dismay, most adorned the same torn and soiled jeans as the greaser before me. "Alright then."

His fist collided with my stomach before I had the chance to prepare for contact. The air left my lungs and I coughed violently, doubling over. Peering up, he stood above me in a smug and confident stance, cigarette in mouth. "Not so tough without your pack, are ya?" His fist rose once more and I clenched my eyes shut.

"BOYS!"

The light returned to my eyes as I witnessed a plump woman pacing down the hall. The greaser's fist was fixed in mid-air, right before my face. His arm relaxed and he slouched as the woman approached. "Thatis more than enough," she bellowed. "Both of you, after school, my office!"

The blush of shame rose to my face. The other boy appeared to be amused and breathed the smoke out of his nostrils and into the face of the woman. "I'm busy," he drawled, walking down the hall.

"Curly Shepherd," she shrieked.

"Fuck off," he barked, casually strolling out the back door, followed by several others.

Trevor helped me up, only for the woman to shove a plump finger in my face. "You, in my office, right now!"

My mouth hung open as she turned on her heel and marched down the parted sea of kids. Trevor whistled low. "What a way to meet the principal." His remark earned a glare. He noted my hand still clutching my stomach. "Well, I guess we know now that you need fighting lessons." He laughed as I swiped at his head, miserably missing.

"I rest my case. Tell me, what were you thinking looking at everyone but the guy ready to kill you?" He raised his eyes in a questioning jest.

"I like the element of surprise," I nipped, smirking. "No shit."

When we neared the entrance to the woman's office, Trevor stopped and stared at the door before shrugging. _Principal Jane Kepler_.

"In case you were wondering, that was Curly, younger brother of Tim. You got a taste of the younger, trust me, you don't want to run into the older. Now," he talked as he walked away, "he would have killed you with that first punch."

Shaking my head, I opened the door and entered the room.

It was whitewashed, with fake plants and a few select staff pictures. A thin woman with black hair and oval glasses sat at the front desk, and without speaking motioned, for me to sit in one of the six seats against the wall.

I slumped against the back of the seat, rubbing my temples. _What will my parents think?_ I bitterly grinned. _So far I had pleased them, right? I was one of them, just another madras-wearing face that walked the halls in that same smug attitude I had thought I despised._ The air conditioning buzzed above my head.

_Maybe I was wrong . . . You're only as good as the company you keep. That's what Father always said. I belonged. The puzzle piece fit perfectly within the image of luxury and pride. A world of suits and ties, of mustangs and dainty women who blushed at the thought of a kiss, of socials and secret nights of drunken parties, of calloused insults and polite pretense, and of a self masked by a class of expectations.  
_"Michele," called the principle. I followed her into a side room that was formatted like a classroom. She stood at the door and handed me a folder with papers in it. "You are to write an essay on the assigned topic for the duration of the lunch period. I suggest you hurry, for you will not be allowed to return to class until it is finished, and your absence will not be excused."

"Yes, ma'am," I responded.

When I walked into the room, I groaned at the boy who looked up at my entrance. His side-burned face broke into a sly grin that suddenly darkened.

"Ah, the super Soc in training." He fained awe.

"Hey, Two-Bit," I murmured. Two-Bit's face held its smile. "Michael, right?"

I nodded. He looked around before getting up and plopping behind the empty teacher's desk. He reached behind himself and grabbed the two erasers before clapping them together. The grey and white chalk dust lingered in the air, surrounding the completely entertained boy. "Watcha in for," he asked.

"Fight," I sighed, once more bringing my hand up to my throbbing temples. He quirked an eyebrow and laughed. "What's so funny?"

He ceased his laughter and shrugged. "Nothing. You just don't seem like the fightin' type. With who?"

"Curly Shep-"

My words were interrupted by more laughter. This time, it lasted for several seconds before he recovered any composure. My eyes narrowed in annoyance. "Got a problem with that?"

"Not at all. I just think that you have to be a special type of stupid to not know how to fight and then to pick a brawl with ol' Curly there. Didn't ya know who you were messin' with?"

I rolled my eyes. "Now I do."

"Did you at least get a punch in?"

At my glare and pursed lips, his mouth formed an 'O.' I sighed, flipping through the file. The first page detailed what my essay was to be on: The Significance of Proper Conduct in the Classroom.

"Great," I muttered. Ignoring my attempt to complete the assignment, Two-Bit contented himself with whistling. "What are you here for," I questioned. "I don't really see you around school."

"It's amazing you see anything with all of your noses in the air," he teased. "Nah, I come every now and then. Go to a few classes, stir up some trouble, and then come here," he gestured at the classroom. "Why," I asked bluntly.

He shrugged. "They give these amazing lil essays here."

I stared at him in shock. "You like doing these things? Are you off your rocker?"

His constant grinning reminded me of the Cheshire Cat in an old fantasy book. "Nah, I like coming up with intriguing responses." He winked and hopped from his desk to his own folder. "See," he happily stated, opening the folder to reveal beneath the title of, "The Proper Respect to Show Classmates," a vulgar sketch of a nude female in a compromising position. I gaped at him. "They let you keep coming back here?"

"Hmm, I think they like me," he stated with such certainty that I could not help but grin in return. Just as I began to relax, his smile faded and he drummed his fingers on the desk. "Ya know, if you were with your pals we wouldn't be talkin'."

"I know," I hushed, attempting to act nonchalant.

"Yeah, and I know what you all did to Johnny Cade." The mention of Johnny's name made me jump in my seat. I looked towards the door, wondering if I would be able to make it there before the hefty boy would have me doubling over for a second time that day.

"I tried to stop them," I quickly interjected.

He cocked another eyebrow. "Yeah, I know." My mouth hung open in a moment of shock. Two-Bit allowed a time of thick silence to pass before resuming his train of thought. "Johnny told us that one of them tried to get them to stop. Easy to assume who that was – you're the only one dumb enough."

"Thanks," I grinned.

"Wasn't a compliment," he stated. "Oh," I whispered, turning back to my assignment. I looked at the clock and groaned as the ending lunch bell rang. I had succeeded in writing my name and the date on the piece of paper. Two-Bit began whistling once more and grabbed his folder filled with non-polite images, heading towards the door. "Nice talkin', Super Soc," he called over his shoulder.

"Hey," I yelled as he opened the door. He turned back and looked at me. "Do you think we'd be friends?"

"What," he scoffed.

"If I wasn't rich, was a grease, do you think we'd be friends?"

He stared at me as if I had proposed to him before shrugging and glancing out the door. "Hell if I know, ya candyass," he mocked, grinning before closing the door behind him.

**-o-**

I exited my last class several minutes late after being reprimanded by the teacher for coming in half way into the class. I briefly describe my excuse and he waved me away, seemingly glad that the day was simply complete. The halls were empty as I paced through them. When I turned a corner, I nearly ran into Ponyboy and Johnny. Both stepped back and glanced around them. I did as well.

"Hey," I said.

Ponyboy glared while Johnny stared at the floor. I moved my attention from the less than happy brunette and studied the thin boy with shaggy black hair. It covered a decent portion of his drooped face, but was not long enough to hide a bruised eye and deeply pitted scar on his cheekbone. He made no eye contact and instead hunched over nervously, glancing over his back as if expecting someone to grab him and add another display of cowardice to his face. I frowned deeply.

"Two-Bit said he saw you at lunch," Ponyboy stated. I nodded, "Yeah . . . He showed me his artistic side." Ponyboy laughed and even Johnny cracked a smile. Ponyboy glanced at his watch and frowned. "I'm late for track. C'mon Johnny," he tugged at the boy's jeans jacket, eager to leave.

"You're on track?"

"Yeah," he answered. "Why?"

I shook my head. "Nothing . . . was just thinking of joining." Ponyboy shrugged started down the hall once more, Johnny in tow.

"I'm sorry, Johnny," I blurted. Both of them paused. Johnny turned to look at me, and in the smallest of measures, nodded his head. Johnny continued past Ponyboy, who looked at me in a mixture of confusion. Fighting for words, he settled for calmly saying, "You should come out to the races sometime. When cross-country starts up, maybe you can try out for the team."

I nodded and Ponyboy waved as he jogged down the hall. The grin remained plastered on my face as I felt content and genuinely proud for the first time since the jumping of Johnny . . . until I turned to see the folded arms and unreadable expressions of Randy and Trevor, who leaned casually against the lockers at the end of the hall, threateningly illuminated by the afternoon glow.

"Damn . . .!"


	9. Torn Silhouettes

**Special thanks to my only two reviwers:** OohGeezz and Scarlett7!

**A/N:** Please, please, if you read this, even a chapter, tell me what you think! I know you people are reading . . . I see it on the hits . . . so let me know how I am doing! I really appreciate it, more than you know! First to review this chapter gets the next dedicated to them! (My pathetic attempt at bribery . . .)

**Dedicated to:** OohGeezz for being the first to review the last chapter! Thanks!

* * *

**Bleeding Autumn Chapter Nine: Torn Silhouettes**

His hand hung loosely on an opened locker, his fingers drumming against it in a steady rhythm. His other hand rested at his side, his thumb looped on the hem of his pants. The blonde boy beside him stood calmly in the middle of the hall, hands folded across his chest, clad in the shorts and tank of track runners. The dull thudding in my chest increased as I slowly walked towards them, feeling ever so much like a dog receiving punishment, its tail tucked securely between its legs. The silence was deafening, able to be cut with a simple butter knife from Mother's fine china cabinet. Neither boy spoke. Their eyes – narrowed and constricted like black marbles.

"What's up?" My voice was shaky and uncertain, clearly wavering with the lack of knowledge of their reactions. The depths of my stomach tightened, preparing for the worst of blows. I only hoped that his fist would avoid my face, lest I have to figure an explanation for Nana and Father.

Randy's mouth hung open bitterly as he let out a shocked "Huh" sound before tossing his head back, rolling his eyes, and slamming the locker door shut. "Unbelievable," he sighed. "You're unbelievable," he pointed at me, "do you know that?"

"Aw, go easy on him Rand'. I blame it on the detention. I bet he had to spend all day with them. He's lucky he got out of there in one piece." His skinny hand ruffled my dark hair, grinning playfully while I shuffled my feet. Randy's face tightened, revealing his high cheekbones and sharply defined features. No amusement danced in his eyes, much less his lips. Instead, he shook his head, curly hair bouncing slightly, and turned away. "Let's go," he ordered.

I looked to Trevor for answers, but he only shrugged and looked at the boy slowly disappearing down the hall, bathed in the evening sunlight. "You're lucky Bob didn't see you," he stated blankly. "You'd be –"

"Dead," I interjected. "I know."

"No, not dead. Just a social outcast, the low of the low, the scum on the greaser's feet, a traitor, the Soc's punching bag –"

"I get it," I snapped. "Just making sure your perspective is right," he laughed.

Our heads turned at the sound of a door opening, and Randy's body was silhouetted against the invading light. "Let's go!"

Trevor whistled lowly as he glanced at me, raising his eyebrows at the no-argument tone of Randy's voice. While I made a motion to head in his direction, Trevor began walking in the opposite way. I turned on my heel and quickly asked, "Where are you going?"

He turned and walked backwards, all the while speaking. "Track. Besides, I'm not a fan of funera – Oomph!"

Robby, the giant, grinned a toothy grin as Trevor rubbed the back of his head, swiping at the over grown boy's large foot that was still resting where he had planted it. "Damnit Rob, what was that for?"

"You should watch where you are going next time," he guffawed. Both boys glared at each other before cracking smiles. Robby held out a hand and helped Trevor back up. "As I was saying, I don't like funerals, so I'm off to practice."

"Whose dying," asked the deep voice of Robby.

Nonchalantly, Trevor pointed at me. "He is."

"Haha, very funny," I bit. "You guys are just full of jokes," I muttered, adjusting my backpack.

Trevor whistled a new tune and jogged down the hall. Robby patted me harshly on the back. "Why you dying?"

I sighed.

"Last time you guys – Let's go!"

**-o-**

The evening air was filled with the scents of coming winter. The sun was brighter than on usual days, cleaned by the wispy clouds dozing along the sky. The wind blew gently, rocking the trees to and fro. Many of them were naked and barren, but a few adorned the proud reds and browns that mixed together in a rich collogue. Randy leaned against his car, clothed in a rich navy sweater while Bob blended into the mustang with a deep red. Robby trotted ahead to meet up with them, but while he chatted away, Art waltzed towards me, a crazy look on his face.

"You ready," he questioned enthusiastically. My eyes rose in confusion. "Ready for what?"

He laughed a low and breathy laugh before motioning with his head for me to follow him towards the gathering of Socs. "Kid doesn't know about today, does he?"

Randy sipped from his secret bottle of liquid and made a brief and stern eye contact with me before speaking. "Nope. We figured we'd surprise him with personal fighting lessons." He grinned, and I relaxed.

"Fighting," repeated a female voice. We all turned and Bob and Randy broke into wide grins as their girlfriends smoothly walked towards them. Randy hurriedly tucked the flask into his coat. The voice came from Cherry, who I considered to be one of the prettiest girls I had ever seen. Her hair glinted in the sunlight as she took her place beside Bob. I smirked at the massive amount of red – shirt, car, hair. Noticing my staring, Bob grasped Cherry by her waist and kissed her lightly on the cheek. I diverted my attention to Marcia, the short haired girl, who giggled lightly as Randy whispered something into her ear. "Well, ain't that something," she murmured.

"How're you doing, Michael? These guys treating you good," said Cherry. I smiled at her sweet tone until Bob made a quick glance my way. "Yep. They're pretty cool." He smirked.

She nodded her head in approval and turned to Bob. "What's this about fighting? You're not going down to the East side are you? Bob, you promised me that you would stay away from them." Her voice was strong and determined, far different from most girls who would allow their boyfriends to dictate their every move as if they were simply a mannequin that could be shifted into various poses and roles. "Don't worry, baby, we're just going to give the kid here pointers so that if any of them tries to mess with him, he can take care of himself." She eyed him suspiciously.

"Is that true?" She directed her question at me. I nodded. "Yeah, guess so." I knew she was not convinced – I was a pathetic liar. Nonetheless, her shoulders slumped as Bob gave her one more peck on the cheek. "I'll catch you later," he husked to her, followed by Randy's supporting, "Yeah."

"Be careful, now," Marcia beamed, her hand sliding across my shoulders. A blush crept onto my face and I ducked my head in polite acknowledgment. _If only she knew . . ._ She giggled and took Cherry's arm as they walked away. _Beautiful and amiable . . ._

"So, where are we driving?"

The boys gave each other amused glances. "No driving," mumbled Robby, with some undistinguishable food in his mouth. The crumbs spilled from the corners of his lips while he spoke. Bob sneered at the boy's mannerisms as he began walking away from the parking lot. "It's amazing you did not grow up on the other side of town," he growled.

Robby looked perplexed and thoroughly oblivious to Bob's comment as he continued to munch on whatever he had stashed away. "Why's that?"

Shaking his head, Bob waved the issue away with his hand and turned towards me. "We're going to the park. It's not far from here. My car's in the shop; some grease put a nice scratch in it."

"Why don't we take Randy's car?"

"I have to leave in forty-five minutes or so," spoke Randy.

"Marcia," I questioned. He lit up like a Christmas tree and nodded. "She wants me to help her pick out a dress or something for some party her dad is throwing."

The park was not a long distance in the least, perhaps fifteen minutes away from the school. The grass was still decently green and here and there children ran about in utter delight and abandon. In a way, I envied them and their blissful ignorance. They seemed perfectly content with the knowledge that they knew nothing at all; just blank stares looking at the world as if it was made of candy canes and gumdrops, where treasure was hidden at the end of the rainbow and Santa Claus really was watching them every second of the day, just waiting with a feathered pen to scratch their names onto a list.

Beside one of the fountains was a group of three other boys, one of them I recognized as the ox of a man, Paul. The one beside him was a lanky man who sported black hair that hung in shags around his face. The other was a short and thin boy with a youthful face and bright, joyful green eyes. He ran towards us without care, smiling broadly. "Hey you guys, we've been waiting for you! What's up? Is this the new kid? What's his name?" I stared in shock as the boy rambled on and on, spouting question after question in a single breath. With his antics he reminded me of a chattering squirrel yelling at a dog that had chased it up a tree.

"Hey, hey, calm down kid," laughed Bob. I had not seen Bob crack a genuine grin since I had met him, but he smiled and chortled as he greeted the young boy. "We were walking here, so you got to excuse the delay." The boy sniggered. I walked up beside Bob.

"This here is Mikey – the boy who can't fight." Bob cracked another playful smirk before heading to join Randy and Robby in greeting Paul and the dark haired man. Art casually lit a cigarette beside me. The boy wrinkled his nose at the scent and waved his hand in jest. "What," barked Art.

"You smell like an ashtray," pointed out the boy.

"Ain't you the fuckin' smart alec?"

"Hey, Art, c'mere!"

While Art headed towards Robby, the boy turned to me and stuck out his hand. "I'm Will – 13." I grasped it. "Michael – 15."

"Same as Trevor," he stated matter-of-fact.

"Guess so . . ."

"Where did you move from?"

His eyes widened in interest. "Guthrie, but I lived in Oklahoma City for a while too. We spent a year in New York once; in Manhattan to be exact. And, I was born in Florida . . . Miami. My family sort of likes to move. They were thinking about moving to California when I got into college."

"Wow," he exclaimed. "I've never even been out of Tulsa. Have you been anywhere else? What was New York like? How long did you live in Miami? What is the ocean like? Did you see it?"

For a moment it was overwhelming. "Uh, yeah. I've been to London and Paris once. Father had a business meeting in London, but Paris was for a vacation. We went to Rome twice . . . once for my Mother's birthday and another for another business trip, and – "

"What was it like," he practically screamed before Bob's hand covered his mouth gently. "That's enough. We have to teach him to fight before the sun goes down or that rain comes in." He nodded towards the North where an army of clouds had been gathering, their black and grey soldiers coiling around each other as in a bed of snakes.

Will scampered off to one side as Paul and the other man slowly paced towards me. The dark man had a menacing look. His eyes were uneven and slanted, and a jagged scar lined his cheek from the corner of his eye to the end of his chin. Had he not been clad in expensive attire, smelling heavily of leather and cologne, I would have mistaken him for one of the switchblade carrying greasers from across the train tracks. "Show me your stance," the man spoke in what came out as a hiss. I smirked at his slightly discernable lisp and parted my legs, bringing my hands up, thinking myself quite the student. The man's shoulders hunched and he brought his hand to his head, as did Randy. Bob laughed loudly.

"If that's how you stand, it's no wonder you can't fight." Bob walked towards me and I tensed. "Here," he spoke gently, grasping my arms and kicking my legs into the 'proper' fighting stance. "You can't expect to cause any damage if your arms are dangling like a wet noodle. Bring them up a little – not too much – there." He took his position among the others, and when I returned my attention to the man, a fist was speeding towards me. I yelped and ducked to the side, kicking out my foot as I had seen a guy do during a fight a week prior. The man fumbled over my foot, but kept his balance. When he turned towards me he grinned and nudged Paul. "Kid might not be able to hit to save his life, but at least he can duck and avoid the punch. Bet you can run, too, huh?"

It was my turn to beam. "Sure can!"

The lessons continued for another hour. Randy had left at some point between learning to block a punch and how to take one. Will had contented himself with being the group cheerleader and at times mockingly narrated the so-called fight, to the annoyance of the others.

"And Mikey ducks another punch! OH! But Luke rebounds and catches him on the cheek! Bad move! And Mikey –"

"Shut up," exclaimed Art and Robby. Will looked downtrodden for a split second, but Bob muttered a "C'mere," and put him in a head lock, rubbing his knuckles over the boy's head.

I breathed heavily, pulling at my now sweat-soaked shirt. Luke glanced at me and placed his hands on the back of his head. "I think he's good to go, for now. He'll get his ass kicked in his first real fight, probably, but he won't get killed." Paul patted me on the back. "Good going, kid. No grease will be able to pick a fight with you if you keep it up. You got endurance at least. If you can't beat him, at least you can tire him out." I silently thanked whatever God existed for having my parents pressure me into athletics, even if it was for the sake of popularity.

"Well, we're heading out," called Art as he walked alongside Robby. "Same here," shouted Luke and Paul. I looked to Bob as I waved tiredly at them.

"Hey, Bob, bring the kid to the party at the end of the month!" Bob glanced at me, smirked, and nodded. "He'll be there!"

By the time I caught my bearings, a single drop of rain landed on my nose. Will had begun walking in circles along the outer edge of the fountain. "He's a weird kid," I mentioned to Bob.

Bob watched Will with caring eyes, causing me to arch a brow in wonderment. "He's a good kid." He turned to me. "He's my brother." My mouth dropped in shock.

"But you two look nothing alike!" It was true. Bob bore loose blonde curls and had square-like features. He was slightly tall and had a stocky build with fair skin, but Will had sandy blonde hair that was as straight as if it had been ironed, russet skin, more freckles on his face then could be counted, and came only up to my chin in height.

"I know. We get that a lot." He grinned and whistled to Will as we began to walk from the fountain. The boy pulled himself from whatever he was staring at across the park and jogged after us. The rain had begun to fall in a steady sprinkle that was actually quite pleasant to walk in. "We'll walk you to your house since it's along the way," Bob offered. I nodded.

We walked in a surprisingly comfortable silence, occasionally making small talk and cracking a joke or two. Bob, away from his adoring posse, allowed his shoulders to loosen and face to contort in multiple expressions, without care or worry. He talked passionately about his plans for college – becoming a lawyer and maybe even starting his own firm. He wanted to marry Cherry and have a big family, perhaps travel around the world. "I don't want my kids to be stuck in all this." He motioned around him.

I followed his movements. "I thought you liked it." He watched Will stare hungrily at a passing bakery. "No. I deal with it. I keep my reputation, keep everyone in their positions, but once I get into college, hell, I don't care what happens here. I want my kids to live differently, you know? I want them to see things, not be stuck to routines like we all are in this goddamn city. And you wonder why we get so bored." The drizzle had begun to wet our clothes and Bob's hair began to flatten from the water. "Besides, I'm going to get Will away from here too. Kid's not cut out for all of this. He ain't in high school yet, so all of that grease – Soc jazz hasn't caught up to him, really. He knows about it, but damn, the kid lives in some fantasy world. He may talk big at times, but he could not hit his worst enemy."

"Won't your parents care if you just cart their kid off to some other country," I asked in utter disbelief. He frowned and studied Will. Without blinking he replied. "Nope."

As we neared the busy street just blocks from my house, I ceased walking and stared straight ahead at the commotion. Cars with windshield wipers swaying full force carefully crept up and down the asphalt street. Shoppers hustled from store to store, carrying heavy bags of gifts and groceries and freshly baked pastries. Couples sat in Brie's Café, sipping steaming cups of hot cocoa or coffee, engaged in jovial discussions.

For a few moments, I was lost in my thoughts and gazed wonderingly at each person on the streets or in the stores and restaurants that lined the busy road. Will and Bob remained silent and in complete content as they walked alongside me.

I once again halted as I came into view of the large cathedral building for which Chestnut Street was supposedly infamous – the church I viewed upon my first day in Tulsa. Although less than a fourth of the structure was visible from our viewpoint, I was able to see its stained glass oval that glimmered in the partly visible sun from atop the building. Tall oak and pine trees surrounded the church and obstructed our view of the entire building. A weather beaten cross stood erect at the top and pigeons and doves darted into and out of the attic rafters.

From behind someone whistled low and exclaimed, "Wow, pretty big building. That's that church huh? You can hear its bells all the way in Mr. Dustin's class." We turned to see Trevor, clad in his track gear.

"You just realized that there was a church here?" Bob starred disbelievingly at him, who waved and only shrugged. "My family doesn't go to church that often. When we do go, it's to the one down the street from our house. You know, on Whispering Spur?"

Will laughed and nudged me. "That still doesn't explain why you never noticed _this_ church!"

Trevor shrugged again and paused to look at the building. "I don't know . . . It just sort of blends in. You don't really notice churches. They're just there and every once in a while, when you're bored or the bells start ringing, you notice them." He turned to the sandy haired boy with water dripping from the ends of his hair. "How ya doing, Will?" Will broke into his contagious grin and chatted away about the training. Trevor merrily chatted back about track and the two dove into an indistinguishable conversation that involved a girl in biology, bubble gum, a frog, and a five page research paper as punishment.

"It tires me out just listening to them," I remarked. Bob nodded, his stern face returning. Nevertheless, he smirked. "Try living with him all day, every day, for the last 13 years . . . is it any surprise he was an early talker?" It was my turn to say, "Nope."

Along the way, Trevor branched off, shouting his goodbyes while jogging away, his backpack thudding against his back. Soon after, we neared my house. Before I walked up the curving driveway, I turned to Bob. "It was nice talking to ya, Bob." I held out my hand with what I imagined to be an idiotic grin plastered on my face. Bob stared at me awkwardly before snorting. "Shoot, kid, it doesn't mean I like you or anything." My face fell in embarrassment and disappointment. He started to walk away, but turned back and shouted, "But I'll see you on Monday!" He winked and continued along his way, cursing the rain and the greaser who scratched his car. Will followed after him, shouting, "Bye, Michael! I'll see you around! You have to tell me about Italy!"

**-o-**

I was still lightly chuckling when I entered the house. Nana met me at the door, a worried expression on her face; I sucked in my stomach and prepared for the hysterical lecture, but none came. She wrung her hands over and over, her eyes moist and swollen. "Nana," I whispered in concern.

"Take off that wet sweater," she hushed. I did as she asked and removed it so that I was clad only in a white undershirt. "Nana, what is it?"

Her eyes never left the sweater. She folded it slowly before holding the wet material against her chest. She took a deep, wavering breath. "Anthony's in the hospital," she spoke. "He's quite sick."

My mouth dropped and chills crept up my spine. "I thought he was getting better! Ah, I bet he is just looking for attention. Father will give him some extra money for this and he'll be fine." I tried to convince myself, but it did not work. I brushed past Nana and hastily headed into the kitchen.

Patrick sat at the table, sipping coffee. "So ye heard," he asked, raising his bushy eyebrows. "That Antonio is playing up his sickness to get some extra time off or some money, yeah," I spat. His old eyes hung low in sadness and swallowed another gulp of coffee before staring into his now empty cup. "Now," he began, speaking in a calm and grandfatherly tone, "I know ye boys don't exactly see eye ta' eye, but I think ye should know that Nana had 'im taken away in an ambulance. Poor lad was crippled over in pain, sweating like a pig."

"He's fakin' it," I assured him, ignorantly. He brought the cup to the sink and set it in, then stared long and hard into my face. "No. I didn't like 'im much either, but . . . it's bad. Really, really bad. The doctor's are doing some tests, but they don't know what it is. I would say an extra prayer if I were ye. It could not 'urt." He rubbed my shoulder and headed into the room I had come from, more than likely heading to console Nana. I rubbed my temples and groaned. _This could not be happening . . . not now when things were looking up for once. It's not happening! _

Ignoring my growling stomach, I hustled upstairs, flinging my wet backpack on the floor and peeling off the wet undershirt while slipping off the soaked pants as well. I headed into the bathroom and turned the shower water on, waiting until the steam rose from the shower head before getting into the shimmering tub. The water stung my back, making it feel as if a thousand needles were shooting into my flesh. I hissed, but grasped the soap and rubbed my arms until they were red and raw, never noticing the mixture of salt that dripped from my eyes. I scrubbed until every inch of my body smelled like the bar of white soap. I grappled for the shampoo, but when it slipped from my hands, I just stood there . . . eyes burning in a confused sorrow, watching the scarlet goo ripple out of the bottle, swirl around my feet, and empty down the drain . . . I stayed like that until the water ran cold . . .

* * *

A/N: Review! There is going to be some side action going on, but it is there for a reason. When the action in the book comes into play, I think you may be pleasantly surprised. Don't think the greasers will only make candid appearances, they do play a major role . . . but this story is about the other side of the tracks. I hope you are enjoying it! 


	10. Project Days

**Author's Note: **I am so sorry for such a long hiatus. I was caught up in college life, a Rwanda missions trip, and family issues. But, this story is not forgotten and I am determined to finish it! Again, I am so very sorry! Here is chapter ten . . . finally! Please review to keep me on top of this and motivated.

**Bleeding Autumn Chapter Ten: Project Days**

The air was thick and heavy with the remnants of early morning frost. I shuddered. In a far away distance, in that quiet and isolated dimension between wakefulness and dreamy sleep, a phone shrilled loudly, demanding to be heard. Again and again, it wailed and wailed. A low moan escaped . . . again it wailed . . . and again! Finally, a light female voice relieved the tormented creature and spoke in a soft and barely audible tone. The house was silent. I listened. Below the room, the clopping of boots resounded on wooden floors . . . a man's coughing . . . the roaring of the heater . . . a bird chirping gaily outside the walls. Down the street, a dog howled.

"Michele?"

Turning my head, I peered through minute slits at the blurry environment. My cheek slumped against the pillow; body sprawled upon the bed face-first. The poster covered walls came in and out of focus. At one moment the flaming mustang appeared clearly, and the next, it was a mass of red yarn. 

"Michele?"

"Hmmm . . .," came the response.

"It's for you, dear."

The groan escaped my lips as I clenched the bed sheets in a childish tantrum and refusal. _Go away_, my head pleaded. 

"Mich – "

"Coming," I nipped, shoving my head away from the soft pillow. The heat of warm air kissed my face as I shuffled out of bed. A glance in the mirror made me grimace at the random angles my hair was plastered. My hands ran through it as I opened the door and padded down the hall. Nana nonchalantly dusted a picture frame as I passed her with little more than a bitter grin to which she returned with even less emotion. Still flattening the top of my head, I grasped the phone set calmly upon its side.

" 'ello?" 

"Michael? This is Randy." My eyes cleared of their sleepy mist and I sat up straight. "Hey Randy," I exclaimed enthusiastically. "What's up?" There was a brief pause before his voice could be heard once more. "I just wanted to make sure everything went well yesterday . . ."

"You mean you wanted to make sure Bob did not beat me to a bloody pulp, right," I tested.

He laughed deeply. "That too. You think you can handle yourself a little bit better now?"

"Sure can," I proudly declared. 

"That's good, Mike. Listen, I got to get running. Marcia decided to make me her taxi this weekend, but I will see you on Monday. Glad it went well."

The phone droned a monotonous buzz as he hung up. I heaved a heavy sigh before skulking away from the table and towards the refrigerator. Nana appeared and mindlessly asked if there was anything in particular I desired. Barely mumbling a answer, she set to preparing a basic meal of eggs and toast. I sat at the table in silence, occasionally rubbing my temples in intense thought. It was mind boggling to consider how much had changed in such a short period of time. Oddly enough, Antonio's absence caused the house to be unusually silent. There were no obnoxious Italian songs streaming from the halls as he went about running office chores, and even less so, there were no slick insults in which to reply. Nana set the plate of food before me, ruffling my hair. "Everything will be okay," she reassured. "Enjoy the weekend while it lasts. And, don't forget to complete your homework assignments"

-o-

Humidity soaked the air long after the thunder clouds' legion retired to the east and all traces of their army melted away. Mourning dew clung to the fresh blades of emerald grass stretching across the turbulent sea of picture perfect yards. _Too perfect to have autumn interrupt their lives_. Mist loomed just above the Oak trees that lined the muddy and soaked concrete pathways. The air was crisp and clean, smelling anew, as it was when creation first began. The faint scent of blossoms from Mother's rose garden tingled my nose as doves cooed softly to the morning's dawn from their perch on the telephone wires. Song birds flitted too-and-fro about the cerulean hued sky, darting between the high branches of golden tree tops while finely decorated wings fluttered over the lush buds. The atmosphere was heavy with content and tranquility. The melodious crunch of the grains of dried mud under my heel created a smooth rhythm that was only disturbed by the calls of adolescent voices and the pitter-patter of two pairs of feet sprinting up the path. 

I turned to see a set of blonde hair sprinting up the pathway. The skinny one outpaced the shorter one, but both grinned wildly as they neared. Will waved enthusiastically, falling further behind in his distraction while Trevor only slowed when he was right in front of me. Breathing heavily, he smirked before emitting a horribly accented "Alo," between breaths. Will bounded beside us, his green eyes shining as he tugged on his shirt. "Hey Michael! Long time no see!" I could not help but be affected by his contagious joy, and was forced to smile back.

The three of us walked a ways down the neighborhoods, staring at the dainty houses and smelling the scent of fireplaces and drying gardens. "You did real well yesterday," remarked Will. Trevor nodded his agreement and without warning whistled and smirked. At my perplexed look, he nodded ahead, where a girl sat on her porch. Her dark hair was pulled away from her face and she wore a baby blue sweater; she was in every way the picture of a ballerina, but at the cat call blushed and hurried indoors, right as her father exited the house. Trevor hissed a round of curses before picking up his pace, yanking me along, laughing as Will chimed, "Way to go, Romeo."

-o-

Feet roughly stomped and scratched across the tiles of Mrs. Mical's history class as everyone rushed to their seats. In a daze of restless sleep, I attempted to stifle a yawn. Beside me, Trevor quirked his brow and smirked. "Late night," he questioned.

I nodded, but quickly ceased as his lips twisted into a devilish grin and he parted his lips to utter a crude comment, but I was swift to interrupt him. "Not that kind of late night – just a long one, ya know?" Thoroughly dismayed and let down, he twisted in his seat and focused on a blonde cheerleader seated across the room. "Boy, are you dull," he muttered. 

Barely hiding a smirk, I glanced around at the filling room, noticing once more the clear lines of class division. The painted and well groomed socials sat in the front right portion of the room, the middle class in the left front, although some mingled with the upper class, and the greasers in the back. Mrs. Mical entered boisterously, face lit in anticipating excitement. 

"Class, settle down . . . ah, Mr. Reid, get off of the desk, and Rebecca, put away the magazines. I have a special announcement to make!" The classes' ears perked up at her unusual demeanor. The graying redhead pushed her glasses further up her nose before grappling with a handful of papers. When she was finally organized, she breathed deeply and beamed. "As you all know, there was going to be a lengthy exam for this class scheduled at the end of the year . . ." The class flooded with protesting moans and utterances of injustice. She raised her hands to calm the class. "However," she continued, "I have thought of something that would be much more intriguing, and probably a bit more appealing to you – a social studies project. Now, this will be due at the end of the year, and there will be no, I repeat, no leniency for lateness. All of you will be placed into pairs. You will select your topic and decide how to present it. You will be graded on the final presentation that will take the place of the exam, and you must incorporate one significant historical movement that we have learned into it. The rest is up to you. Now, this is a sheet of the pairs I have placed all of you into. There will be no switching partners."

As soon as she passed out sheets of project requirements and placed the roster of pairings on the desk, she exited the room while a mass of students wildly shoved their way to learn of their fated partners. Trevor winked at me, assuming that we would be together. Several students left the desk hooting and grinning, while others appeared as depressed as if they had learned of a pet's sudden and tragic death. Sighing, I headed towards the desk and skimmed the sheet for my name, passing Trevor's and noting that he was paired with the pretty blonde he had fancied for the past weeks. Curious as to whom I had been sorted with, I continued down the page, stopping at my name and following it over . . . I stopped, breath hitched in the pit of my stomach. I gripped the desk tightly and nearly jumped when Trevor plopped a hand on my shoulder. "We together?" 

I shook my head as he searched for his name and yipped in glee at the female discovery. Turning back to me, he questioned, "Who'd you get?"

Without hesitating, I husked, "Johnny Cade."

The timid boy was nearly unnoticeable in the class. When he first started coming following the jumping, I had avoided all contact with him. He never spoke, hardly made any sounds, and never looked anyone in the face. He was like a ghost within the classroom, coming and going without any real recognition. I turned to face the classroom, my eyes roaming over the various figures before they planted on top of the thin boy slouched far in the back corner, tucked away from the world of the living, doodling on a piece of paper, and lost within his own world. I frowned – who could blame him for wanting to be anywhere but here? 

"What are you going to do," asked Trevor, impatiently desiring to bound over to the cheerleader's desk like a lovesick puppy wanting a pet. He smirked at her and winked, which only caused her to giggle. "I'll handle it, okay? Meet up with you after class," I hurriedly responded, returning to my desk and jamming books into the backpack. Trevor needed no other convincing, for he was already by the blonde's side; they had as much likelihood of discussing project ideas as I had in dating Cherry Valance. The bell shrieked loudly and the mass of plaid shirts and leather jackets moved toward the doors. I caught the figure of Johnny as he too exited the room and I rushed after him, nearly knocking a middle-class girl to the ground. 

It was in the middle of the hall that my hand landed on Johnny's shoulder as I simultaneously called his named. Nevertheless, he may as well have jumped out of his clothes and darted down the hall naked with his petrified and startled reaction. His raven eyes made brief contact with mine and I saw that same convicting recognition, resentment, and fear I had when he was attacked and when he roamed the hall with Ponyboy weeks ago. He nervously fidgeted and eyed those who passed by, as if expecting at any moment an army of Socials to burst from the lockers in an angry riot. "What do ya want," he whispered, but in a surprisingly stern and demanding tone.

"I'm not going to do anything. We're, ah, well, we're partners." 

He only stared at me, completely lacking in any sort of reaction. Awkwardly, I shuffled my feet and continued. "So, I think it would be a good idea to figure out what we want to do." There was still now reaction – no change in expression, no twitch of his lips, no alteration in body posture. He just stood there, and I felt like an idiot, which ignited a flame of indignation in my breast. "Look, I know neither of us are excited about this, so let's get this done and over with as quickly and as soon as possible. It will make it easier for us both." 

"Fine," he bit. My eyes widened at the authoritative voice that did not match the turmoil-eyed body. "Fine," I impatiently nipped back. We stood there like junior high kids, waiting for the other to break. Realizing that he had much more experience in staying silent, I sighed in surrender. "Look, Johnny, we are going to have to do it outside of school. Don't take this the wrong way, but I don't think my parents would be pleased if we worked on it at my place, so that leaves either staying here or going to your place. Up to you." Johnny flicked wisps of jet black hair away from his face, only to better reveal the healing scar on his cheekbone. Guilt panged my chest. He bit his lip uncertainly. "Not here," he decided. "Not my place. Curtis house after school tomorrow. Let's get it over with." He jotted down an address on a scrap of paper, shoved it towards me, and disappeared down the hall of faces before I could say any more. Like a phantom . . .

It was not until lunch that I ran into Trevor, Bob, Randy, and the gang. They lounged lazily on the designated tables with their gals in tow. Marcia clung to Randy's arm, dumb-struck by whatever he was saying to her; in stark contrast, Cherry and Bob appeared to be in a heated argument. Her eyes blazed as she pursed her lips in a deadly thin line, narrowed her eyes, and hissed within earshot, "You're unbelievable, Bob!" Grasping her small shoulder purse, she stormed off, but not before granting me a sweet and flustered smile with an apologetic nod. I never understood what a girl like Cherry was doing with a guy like Bob. Every time they were together a verbal brawl ensued – she uttered careless insults at him about emotional deficiencies while he countered with accusations of uptightness and prudish behavior, yet it always ended with him purring secret words into her ear and she melting right back into his arms. It was cyclical in nature, expected and utterly aggravating each and every time. 

Setting down my platter of food, I nodded to the group and glanced at Trevor who rolled his eyes and mimicked the fight. Barely stifling a laugh, I made eye contact with Randy as he lightly kissed Marcia on the cheek before she left in search of Cherry. Bob stared silently at his hands before slamming them down upon the table, causing everyone to jump and those at nearby tables to glance our way. "Damnit," he shouted. "Just can't do anything right with her! I offer to take her to the movies and I am not romantic enough. I offer to take her to dinner and I am too dull. What the hell do women want?" 

While most would have found his desperate outburst to be comedic, I found myself sympathizing with the curly-haired Social. He sighed dejectedly and rested his head against his fist. No one ever doubted he loved Cherry, but as to whether their love was stable, we all questioned. Breaking the odd silence, Trevor bluntly remarked, "If we understood what women wanted, do you think we would be going broke trying to figure out what they wanted, or just trying to buy them something sparkly enough that they don't realize we don't have a damn clue?" Bob smirked, his normal arrogant demeanor returning.

"So, Mikey," he drawled, "Trevor said something about a project you got to do with the grease monkey with jumped a while back." I nodded. "What of it?"

His eyes glowed in a hungry anticipation. "The question is, what are you going to do about it?" I stared at him suspiciously, wondering was devious and cruel plan he was conjuring. "Nothing," I stated blandly. "Just going to deal with it, get it over with, and get a good score. That a problem?" I rose from my seat, grabbing the tray of barely eaten food. The others followed my lead before we headed into the halls. Bob stretched his arms above his head in a dramatic yawn. "Nope, not a problem." His grin returned. "Assuming you don't run into Winston." 

"Who?" I had heard the name only in passing over the weeks. It came with as much authority as the Shepherd's name, and with just as much threat. "Whose this Winston everyone keeps talking about?"

Randy whistled low and rested against a locker. "He's someone you don't want to run into alone. Dallas is one of the toughest cats around. Man's a maniac in a fight and isn't afraid of anything, doesn't care about anything, and takes a sick pleasure in crushing the skulls of as many Socials as possible." Randy smirked. "He'll kill you without a second thought." Refusing to be drawn into their intimidation act, I shoved my way past Trevor and Robby. "And why does that concern me," I called back. 

"Cause," laughed Bob airily, "Cade's his pet, and he knows what happened . . ."

-o-

The scent of gingerbread lingered in the entrance way as I made my way into the kitchen, twisting newly earned keys about my fingers as I entered. The birthday celebration was nothing special following Antonio's hospitalization. It came and went with as much grandeur as the bouts of rainfall in September – the only significant reminder it has occurred at all being the new red mustang in the driveway and fresh license in my wallet. In the pristinely kempt kitchen, Nana stood mixing a bowl of cookie batter. She smiled tiredly as I made my appearance. Her age was finally showing with the additional stress of caring for Antonio. He had been discharged from the hospital a week after he entered, despite protest. They simply stated that they could find nothing wrong with him and hurriedly ushered him out of the building when he was well enough to walk. Yet, the pains in his stomach, while not as frequent and horrific as they originally were, granted Nana enough reason to keep him in bed. The fear and uncertainty of it all was etched deeply in the wrinkles beneath her lips and dark circles around her eyes. Her cheeks were not as rosy as they normally were, and the joyous laugh in her voice had dimmed. 

"Here, Nana," I exclaimed, rushing to her side and grasping the bowl and spoon from her hands. "I will mix it for you." She chuckled and ruffled the top of my head before turning to the oven and removing a freshly baked sheet of gingerbread cookies. She blew on them softly and I watched her move about the room carefully. "You okay, Nana?" The words came softly. She rested a hand against the counter and heaved a sigh. "I am doing well, my dear. It has just been a rough couple of weeks, and that boy's health has my nerves on end." 

Looking around the grand room, I finally took in the vast size of the house. Nana, for once, did not appear as large as she use to, and I wondered how she managed to keep things so organized each day. "I can help out a bit more, Nana. I can do the laundry even," I spurted, determined to make myself useful in some way, yet knowing full well I had as much knowledge about laundry as Nana did in current trends. Nevertheless, her face beamed in gratitude and she pointed a finger towards me. "I'm the one that is suppose to worry about you, you hear? Now," she motioned to a plate of cookies, "take those up to Antonio if you really would like to help this old lady. He has been doing a bit better, and those are his favorite. I think he will enjoy it." 

Handing over the bowl of batter to her, I grasped the plate of treats and headed toward the stairs, but not before Mother entered the room, fixing her hair into a jeweled hair clip. "Ah, Michele," she called, "you should know better than to eat upstairs." She kissed the side of my cheek and I grimaced at the pink lipstick mark I was certain she left. "They are for Antonio, Mother." She frowned – a sickly worker staying in her home did not settle well with her and she tried time and again to have him sent to family in Texas, but to no avail. Father had declared Antonio too precious to send away, for only he knew the proper way of filing the paperwork and organizing his appointments. "Such a sweet boy," she declared. "Now, dear, what do you say we go shopping tomorrow for winter clothing?"

I started. Licking my lips in anxious realization as to why her plan would not work, I attempted to explain to her that I would be meeting with a partner after school, hoping that would be enough to satisfy her curiosity. "Who and where, dear," she beckoned in a honey coated tone. I grimaced, edging my way further and further toward the stairs. "Johnny," I muttered. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "I asked you where, Michele."

I surrendered. "East side somewhere. Look, I did not get to choose – " 

It was too late. Her eyes had widened in shock and she sneered in disgust. "Well, then it will be a shame that you cannot go. Don't worry, we will sort this out. What is the name of the teacher, now?" She headed towards the list of numbers set beside the phone. "Mother, there is no changing partners. It's a rule. It's just one time! I will be back by dinner!"

"Michele," she snapped, "that is quite enough. The matter is settled. Now, go upstairs." She folder her arms in stubborn arrogance and raised her chin with pride. My eyes glowered at her slender frame – her perfect complexion, plastered hair, and fine accessories. Rage boiled within my heart and with each step I made up the stairs, I imagined crushing specific qualities I despised about her; one by one the shrieked in pain beneath my shoes before withering into nothingness. It was a pleasure.

It was not until I was before Antonio's room that my thoughts returned to the task at hand. I rapped on the door and entered. Antonio rested on the bed, his face contorted in an unspoken pain. He had lost a bit of weight and his hair had lost its trademark shine. I had made spending time with him scarce, and never was I alone, for Nana always accompanied my on most occasions. Antonio glanced at me and lowered his eyelids. "What do you want," he bristled. I smirked – sick as a dog, he was still a smug ass. I shrugged and gestured toward the cookies. "Nana sent me up. Thought you would like some." I set the plate beside his bed and turned to leave. "Wait," he moaned. I turned to see him struggle to sit up. I waited for him to continue. He stared at me for a long while, every emotion readable in his eyes. A battle of pride. The two sides tumbled together within his dark pupils until at long last humility won and he motioned toward a glass of water set across the room. "I don't think I can get up to get it without passing out." 

I needed no other hinting, and quickly handed it to him without a word of objection. As he drank, I got a good look at him. Circles decorated his eyes, and he was considerably pallid in color. A spring of trepidation flooded my body. "You feeling alright?" 

He scoffed. "As if you care. I bet you are hoping I die." 

My eyes bulged and I indignantly retorted, "Don't say that! You're not going to die, and I never wanted you to." He looked surprised, but rebounded with an unbelieving laugh. "Maybe get hit by a car every now and then, but not killed," I continued, matching his smirk. This time, he laughed genuinely, but only until coughs racked his body. I frowned. "Why do you hate me?"

His eyes fluttered close and he breathed deeply. "I don't hate you. It's just how thing are. You're the spoiled prince and I'm the hired jackass. It's just how things work." Saying no more, he turned away from me and curled up on his side. I grabbed a cookie from the plate and turned from the room, whispering more to myself than to Antonio, "Maybe things need to change." Unsure as to whether he heard, I closed the door behind me and listened as Mother started one of her classical records below. It was then I noticed how Antonio's room was tucked away from the world, down a small hall most would overlook. No pictures decorated these walls, and one could just as easily assume it was a laundry room as a bedroom. It was as if he was invisible . . .The scent of gingerbread traveled toward me, but when I bit into the cookie, it tasted bitter. 


End file.
